


The Return of the (Witcher) King

by valiantlybold



Series: A King's Game [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Against Elves, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Alternate Universe - Video Game World, Characters will be added as they appear - Freeform, Comedy of Errors, Existential Crisis, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has ADHD, I'm Sorry Tolkien, Isekai, M/M, Magic, Physical Abuse, Racism, Reincarnation, Slow Build, Talk about death, Tolkien References, Truck-kun, Video Game Mechanics, a lot of talk about death, because yens dad Sucks, but thats it, demi-humans, goat boi eskel, he pulls her by the hair, i have committed Theft, its pretty brief, kitty boi lambert, like i stole So Much from tolkien, read with caution tho if the topic is uncomfortable for you, tags will update as we go to avoid spoilers, the world is a video game, yennefers dads A+ parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:35:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28691790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valiantlybold/pseuds/valiantlybold
Summary: When Geralt dies, he is given a new life. His new world isverydifferent from what he's used to and the Gods seem intent on pushing him into trouble.One thing is for certain, though.There seems to be a great Destiny awaiting Geralt.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii & Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: A King's Game [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2103078
Comments: 15
Kudos: 75





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so this Happened and here we are!
> 
> Hopefully, this will be the first in a series. Ive got plans for a sequel but knowing me, nothing is ever promised. Even so, i really hope you will all enjoy this, as much as I enjoyed writing it! I'm pretty impatient, so ill probably end up posting a chapter per day or so <3
> 
> Thanks so much to KittenKakt, for being an amazing well of ideas and inspiration, as well as an awesome beta, and for just cheerleading this whole thing from the very beginning!!
> 
> You can find her [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittenkakt)

When Geralt wakes up, he’s immediately confused.

Last thing he remembers is...going out to the post office. He was picking up some retro games he ordered, that _finally_ came in the mail. And then... He was walking back home, and- Hm. And then- No, nothing. Nothing after that. What happened? How’d he end up in this place? What _is_ this place, even?

It’s a vast room bathed in darkness, he can’t even see the walls. A spotlight shines down on him, where he sits on the floor.

_“Greetings, dear human.”_

Geralt startles at the disembodied voice. It seems to come from all around him all at once.

“H-Hello?”

_“My name is Melitele, and I am a Goddess. I regret to inform you that sadly you have died.”_

_Died?!_ What?!

“Um. Excuse me?”

_“Yes, it’s a shame, but please do take comfort in the fact that in your death, you saved the life of another.”_

“O-Okay?” Geralt hesitates. “What happened?”

_“A little girl chased her ball into the street, into oncoming traffic. You acted fast and shielded her with your body, taking the blow that was meant for her.”_

That...sounds a little familiar.

He was walking home, and someone shouted a girl’s name, and it made him look up, and he saw the little girl in the street, and without even thinking, his body was throwing itself into the street too and he was grabbing the girl, and-

The truck hit them, but he shielded the girl.

“Is-... Is she okay? The girl, was she hurt?”

_“She received some injuries, but nothing critical, thanks to you. You took the brunt of the impact. An ambulance rushed to the scene, but sadly, you passed away before they could reach the hospital. The girl will recover, with some time.”_

Geralt swallows dryly. “Okay. That’s... That’s good.”

At least the girl was okay. He hadn’t exactly planned on dying, but...at least dying while protecting someone is better than dying needlessly. Suppose he can take some comfort in that.

But still... He’s _really_ dead? He actually died? What the fuck...? He knew he was going to die one day, obviously, but actually being told _you have died_ was not something he expected. The prospect of his own death was, at the most, a bit of an abstract concept. He knew it was coming, but it didn’t feel _real._ He was twenty-six years old! He was supposed to live for at least another forty years before death became something he actually had to worry about!

But here he is, dead as a doornail.

“So... What happens now? Heaven? Hell?” he asks the Goddess. “Is there even an Afterlife?”

It’s not like he doesn’t _want_ to go back to his old life, he really _does_ want to go back, but if this Melitele lady really _is_ a goddess then... Well, what the hell is Geralt supposed to do about it? What is he now, a disembodied soul? An incorporeal spirit? What’s _he_ supposed to do against a _goddess?_

_“Indeed, there is. But we, Gods and Goddesses, have somewhat of a rule. If a good person dies while doing a good deed, they are given a second chance at life in a new world, as a reward._ _Continue to be good, and perhaps you will continue to be reborn!”_

Hm, sounds reasonable. Good people get rewarded for being good. Makes sense.

Suppose all he _can_ do is grin and bear it. It’s not like everything is just _over,_ right? He’s getting a new life! That’s better than nothing, isn’t it? Yeah, he would prefer to go back to the life he knew, but suppose this isn’t too bad of a consolation prize, right?

“So you’re gonna put me in a new world?”

_“Indeed! For you, a world created by a fellow Goddess of mine has been selected, which she named the Continent. After looking in on it, I do believe it appears similar to some of those video games you enjoyed playing. I think it will suit you very well!”_

“She made…a video game world?”

_“I suppose so, yes. We create all sorts of little worlds, experimenting with different types of building blocks and such, then set them loose to live and develop all on their own. I think she may have been inspired by the games in my world, if I may be so bold as to say.”_

Damn, this sounds like something straight out of an anime.

Guess he’s in it now, so there’s no use complaining. It’s not like he can change things by whining about them anyway.

Geralt staggers to his feet. “Alright, then. Let’s get started, I guess.”

_“Very good, dear human! To prepare for you new world, please use this to build your new self!”_

A holographic screen opens up in front of Geralt. Okay, _definitely_ inspired by an anime.

The screen has a full picture of his body, with slides and scales and buttons to change his appearance. Hm, well, _that’s_ no good. Geralt is _not_ walking around with a neon green Fu Manchu and a pink bowl-cut; randomized avatars are _the worst._

He changes race first; as cool as being an elf or a demi-human sounds, he’s probably better off sticking to what he knows, so _human_ it is. Like usual, he isn’t much for character creation, he’s not very good at it, so he picks one of the ready-made models. Decently tall, a little extra muscle, sounds okay. He fiddles a little with the facial features, though, to try to make it look as similar to what he remembers looking like in his past life. It was a decent face, he didn’t have any major argument on it. Long white hair, as usual. While he does look good with blue eyes, he goes for his usual yellowish hue.

Yeah, that looks about right. He inputs his name then moves to the next screen.

Attributes and skills, huh?

Fifty points to put into any of the basic attributes, and five skill points to invest in basic skills. Yup, it’s a video game alright.

Well, he doesn’t know what the world looks like yet, so it would probably be best not to specialize too much just yet; luckily, the basic attributes are already locked at ten points each, so he won’t be helpless either way, he just gets to pick where to put some extra spice.

Alright, that will serve as a good start, he decides after spreading his points as evenly as possible across the attributes. He needs a solid foundation before he can build, right?

As for skills, though... Hm.

The Continent so far looks and sounds like it’s built somewhat similarly to an RPG game, which means Geralt will have to pick a role and basically stick with it. Class changing is usually possible (though tedious and time-consuming), but he should start with something he knows relatively well. There will likely be guilds and quests and professions, which will be an easy way to earn a living and build a decent new life for himself. It’ll take some work, but he should be able to get by alright if he puts his past gaming experience to good use.

Joining a guild as an adventurer is a good way to start. It’ll be a decent starting income, at least until he figures out what he wants to do.

Alright, most low-level guild quests are usually hunting and fetch-quests, so that’s where he’ll start, he decides. They’re good skills to have, no matter what.

****

****SKILL(S) AQUIRED:** **

****\+ Hunting** **

****\+ Literacy** **

****\+ Survival** **

****\+ Tracking** **

****\+ Trapping** **

The _Literacy_ skill might seem out of place, but he’ll need to be able to read the notices if he wants to take on a quest, right?

The next screen is class-selection. Out of the classes available to him based on attribute points and chosen skills, he picks adventurer.

“I’m done,” he informs the Goddess.

 _“Very good! Before I send you on, there is one last thing I must give you. In accordance with our stipulations, because your last actions lead to the saving of an innocent life, I hereby bestow upon you_ the Light’s Blessing!”

A new window opens on his screen.

****LIGHT'S BLESSING:** **

****A blessing offered by the Gods, awarding the user triple XP at all times. (Passive Skill)** **

Hm. That could be useful.

_“Now, go forth, dear human, into your new life!”_

*

When Geralt wakes up, he is again confused.

At least this time, he’s somewhere that looks somewhat familiar.

He sits up and looks around. He wouldn’t call it a forest, but maybe a copse? A few trees on a hill, crowns just big enough to shield him from the sun. Still, the grass is soft and warm under him.

He’s dressed in different clothes than before; instead of jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie, he’s wearing soft leather pants and a gray tunic, with a belt around his waist, which has a small satchel attached to it. He also has a dagger and its sheath hanging off his belt. His boots are comfortable, for being seemingly brand new.

There are two bars at the top left of his vision, which appear to track his health and his mana (if video games have taught him right). So he even gets a HUD? Interesting.

****GERALT LV.1** **

****HP: 30/30** **

****MP: 30/30** **

Alright, level one, not unexpected.

A window pops up.

****

****Swipe up to open inventory!** **

Tool tips? That’s nice of them.

He does as suggested, and swipes his hand upwards.

The small window is replaced by a much larger one.

On the left half is a detailed view of his health and mana, as well as a space for any active buffs or debuffs, and a list of his attribute values. On the right, his inventory is displayed.

A water skin (filled), three rations, fifty gold, a dagger, minor teleportation crystal (unbound), and a minor health potion.

The potion will recover thirty points of health, which seems about right for a minor potion. The teleportation crystal seems like it needs to be bound to a location before it can be used; he wonders if they’re a one-use item, or if they’ve got several uses in them. Since it’s a minor crystal, it probably only has one, or maybe two, uses in it, but that would also imply that crystals with a higher class have _more_ uses in them. Interesting. He’ll have to remember that.

He double-taps the water skin.

The skin materializes in the air in front of him, leading him to scramble to catch it lest it spill. Once he has it in hand, he tries to use the screen to put it back, to no avail.

So he can take items _out_ with the screen but he can’t put them _in._ That’s good to know.

He taps the next tab, which brings up his skill tree. There are several trees, it seems, each with its own nature of skills and powers attached to it. Craftsman, Magician, Speech-craft, Warrior, Thief, and so on.

He lets out a sigh as he closes the holographic screen.

He can’t see any towns or cities nearby, so he’ll basically have to pick a direction and start walking. On the way, it wouldn’t hurt to do some grinding. He’ll collect herbs, firewood, and such, and try to hunt down some small game. It’ll be good XP and he can probably sell things off for a decent profit when he finds a town.

He leaves the copse. It’s hardly more than ten trees, so it’s unlikely he’ll find any worthwhile game there. Still, he makes a round and picks whatever plants look interesting and some good-looking fallen branches for firewood.

Once he stands with an open view around him, he holds his hand out, points his finger, shuts his eyes, and starts spinning. After what feels like a decent number of turns, he stops and opens his eyes.

He starts walking in the direction he was pointing.

There’s no road, but these grass plains aren't an issue to traverse. It’d be worse if there was a bloody mountain in his way, or something.

_Shplorf!_

Excuse me?

_Shplorf, shplorf, shplorf!_

Euch. Geralt turns around.

Slimes. Of course there are fucking _slimes._

Geralt draws his dagger and stabs at the gross little bastards, even if just to stop them making those _disgusting_ noises. There are goosebumps of disgust covering Geralt’s entire body, they’re just so _gross!_ All slimy and sticky and _nasty!_ Whoever invented slimes as a mob needs to have an intimate meeting with Geralt’s dagger.

 ** _ **10 XP × 3**_** pops up in an event list on the bottom right of Geralt’s HUD, once for each slime he _murders._

****LEVEL UP!** **

****LEVEL UP!** **

****LEVEL UP!** **

****SKILL POINT(S) AVAILABLE!** **

****ATTRIBUTE POINT(S) AVAILABLE!** **

****

Damn, three levels just from a tiny herd of slime? That blessing really is a godsend, isn’t it?

He’ll save the points for later, since he’s not sure of his specialties yet.

With a heavy breath, Geralt keeps walking.

From there on, it’s a pretty uneventful walk. He picks a few flowers and some berries off random bushes, and finds a couple cool rocks, but that’s about it.

It must be about noon when the landscape finally starts changing. He comes upon a small hill, and once he’s at its top, he sees several more hills dotted around past it.

“Maybe I shoulda gone with the _Navigation_ skill,” he says to himself as he surveys the landscape. “Probably woulda found my way to a fuckin’ city by now if I did.”

He heads down the other side of the hill.

Hm. That’s kind of weird.

Looking at the first hill now when he’s standing beside it, it’s only _just_ taller than him, _and_ the rest of them look to be almost, if not _the same_ height. A walk around to each hill confirms it. So, they’re uniform in size. Maybe there’s something about their placements too, then.

He climbs back up onto the first hill.

It’s hard to tell, especially before, when he wasn’t looking for it, but looking _really, really_ closely, there seems to be a loose pattern. Their placement isn’t uniform, which obscures it somewhat, but they appear to be placed in a circle with one hill at its center.

If this really was a video game, there would be some sort of secret or puzzle here. If he solves it, he’ll get a reward. This early in the ‘game’ a reward like that could be a massive help. Be it armor, weapons, magic, or even just gold. Whatever it may be, it would obviously be valuable enough to hide behind a puzzle, and _that_ makes it useful.

But first, though, he needs to figure out what the puzzle is and how to solve it.

He tackles each hill as a separate entity. He studies them each from top to bottom and makes a note of anything out of the ordinary.

Which is _nothing._

They all look _exactly_ the same.

No clues at all. What kind of puzzle leaves no clues or instructions? How is he supposed to solve this if he’s got nothing to go on?

By the time he decides to give up for the time being, it’s almost sunset. He takes a seat on the center hill, around which the others are arranged. He should probably call it a day. He’ll get some rest and look at it with fresh eyes in the morning.

“At this point, it’s probably somethin’ stupid like _speak friend and enter,”_ he mutters to himself while chewing on one of his starting rations

Don’t get him wrong, he _loved_ Lord of the Ring in his old life, but that doesn’t mean he didn’t also have certain _opinions_ on it.

 _But_ as if on cue, the damn hill starts to fucking glow under him. Sparkling particles of light fill the air, streaming up from the ground, and around him, letters begin to appear in the grass. Geralt reaches down and runs his hand over some of them, brushing away the grass and dirt that has with time come to cover the letters. They’re made of metal, implanted firmly into the ground.

How did he not notice those before?

And also, _what the fuck?!_ Geralt needs to have a _strong_ few words with whatever fucking god made this world because _why_ would they just copy-paste the stupidest bit of Lord of the Rings?

He stands up quickly. Even without his _Literacy_ skill, he can read the Tengwar letters.

They read, as fucking expected: _Speak friend and enter._

Someone needs to end Geralt’s fucking _life._

Again.

 _“Pedo Mellon a Minno,”_ he reads to himself, turning as the letters are placed in a circle around where he was sitting. “Speak friend and enter. Hm.”

If they put the clue in original Sindarin, from Geralt’s old world, then it must mean that the people in _this_ world must be able to read and speak Sindarin too. Otherwise, what would be the point of using this as a clue, if no one in the world could read it anyway?

Hm, maybe the elves in this world speak Tolkien’s Sindarin? The goddess that Geralt met, Melitele or whatever, said that the maker of this world was a fan of Geralt’s old world, having become familiar with video games and used them as the basis for _this_ world. Then, maybe they were also familiar with other types of media, which could mean they could easily have come in contact with Tolkien’s work. If they liked _that_ too, then it would make sense that they might use it in ways like this.

Well. It’s no use to dwell on things he doesn’t and _can’t_ know. Either way, he knows the solution to the puzzle.

_“Mellon.”_

And that’s when the fucking ground splits open under his feet and he falls into some kind of dark pit.


	2. Chapter 2

He lands in a big pool of water so at least he doesn’t break every bone in his body and honestly, he’d call that a _win_ even if he isn’t a big fan of getting soaked.

Geralt breaks the surface with a gasp for air. Surprise bath time didn’t exactly give him a chance to hold his nose before he got dunked. He swims to the edge of the pool and climbs out, collapsing in the dirt with a sigh.

After a few moments of catching his breath, Geralt gets up. When he does, a flash of light blinds him for a second before he realizes it simply lit the torches mounted all along the walls.

Looking back, the entrance, or rather, the hole in the ceiling that Geralt fell through, is closing behind him. Well, _shit._ Let’s hope that means there’s another exit somewhere, or Geralt got his wish and his new life is over before it really started.

But as one door closes, another opens.

In the wall, an opening appears in the blink of an eye. Beyond it, he can see stairs leading down, and he hasn’t much choice but to go the way he’s being lead. He follows the spiral staircase for several minutes which is certainly long enough for him to get _plenty_ dizzy from it, and have him sitting down to rest his head for a bit when he reaches the bottom.

When he comes out of the stairwell and into the room beyond, Geralt is _very_ surprised.

It’s a big round room with several small braziers placed around to light the whole space. Most of the walls are filled with bookshelves, which in turn are chock-full with books (and in Geralt’s mind, that’s treasure enough on its own). One area has several armor stands in it, each with its own set of armor on it and matched with suitable weapons. The third and last area is, as expected, filled to the brim with treasure. Tall piles of gold coins and gems and pearls, elegant-looking treasure chests scattered through the mess, and so on, so forth. Your standard dungeon treasure, basically.

Of course, Geralt heads for the beautiful books first.

Before touching them, he strips out of his wet clothes and lay them to dry near the closest brazier. He grabs a few books to start with and takes a seat in the armchair conveniently placed nearby. Leafing through the pages of the books, he finds them to be mixed in language. Though the letters differ, one of the languages has the same structure and sound as English, which is a relief. The second language he sees matches Sindarin, and the third matches Khuzdul, the language of the dwarves in Lord of the Rings. Okay, so the god _really_ liked Tolkien. _Or_ they were just too lazy to make up languages of their own, and used Tolkien’s which were basically ready-made (to a certain degree, at least).

Fingers crossed there’s a dictionary for these languages among these books, because he’s going to need it.

*

It’s surprisingly fast to get through the collection of books. Most of them turn out to be Skill Books, which only require him to _open_ them to learn the skill. He learns a lot of good-sounding skills through them but sadly, most of them require a decent amount of MP to use, which is a shame since he only has thirty mana at this point. Out of the rest of the books, only a handful are in languages he knows well enough to read; he learns a lot about the world through them, though he questions how up-to-date the information is. Since they’ve been locked up in this dungeon for who knows how long, it’s probably very likely that they’re not particularly recent. Still, he treasures the knowledge. It might come in handy, one of these days.

The interesting books, especially the ones he is unable to read yet, go into his satchel (which seems to defy logic considering it can fit about two hundred books in it while still only being about the size of a fanny pack). With some time, maybe he’ll be able to use _Translate,_ which he learned from one of the Skill Books. He needs to build up his MP for a while first, to ensure he has enough mana to translate more than just the title.

Next, he goes to the collection of armors. The lot of them look pretty damn cool, if he has to say. A few of them look like they match one of the physical attributes, and some seem to match certain classes. The light-weight leather armor would probably go well with a Thief or a Scout, while the heavy plate mails would be better for a Knight or some such. He puts on one of the lighter sets and it’s matching weapon, a sword similar to a katana, then squeezes the rest into his bag as well.

Damn, that bag really is _something._ Thank fuck he doesn’t need to worry about carry-weight, that shit’s a pain.

Lastly, is the actual treasure itself.

Curious, Geralt tries out a theory. He grabs a handful of gold coins and drops them into his bag.

****+14 Gold** **

Money isn’t counted in his inventory, even if placed in his bag. He tries with a gem. Hm, that counts towards his inventory. Good to know. He removes the bag from his belt then starts shoveling the treasure into it. His currency counter climbs with each scoop, while the gems and pearls go to the inventory, as planned. In the end, all that’s left are the small chests, which he can now count to number a total of six.

When he opens them, he finds each of them to contain a massive green gem, which seems to emit a faint glow. Interesting. Well, he doesn’t need the chests themselves, so he’ll leave those behind.

Geralt picks up one of the huge gems. As soon as it’s out of the chest, though, it _shatters_ in his hands.

Instead of turning into shards and bits, it becomes little dots of green light, which quickly stream into Geralt’s body with a rush of air. An XP crystal?

**_**\+ 500 000 XP × 3** _ **

****LEVEL UP!** **

****LEVEL UP!** **

****LEVEL UP!** **

****LEVEL UP!** **

_And so on…_

What the fuck…? That’s…one and a half _million_ experience?

Geralt swallows dryly. He glances up at his level.

_Level fifty-six?!_

He was _level four_ until about ten seconds ago!

Holy shit…

Fuck, Geralt’s going to have a heart attack.

And there are still _five_ more XP crystals. If each of them is another half million, and then add his _Light’s Blessing_ on top of that…

He has another seven and a half million experience in front of him.

_Holy shit._

Okay, yeah, this is _definitely_ inspired by an isekai anime.

Geralt stands up. Guess he’s bringing five entire chests with him. He’s not going to use those XP crystals, but _he knows_ it would be _massively bad_ if the wrong person stumbled into this place and found them. The safest place for them is with him. At least until he can figure out how to destroy them or something.

 _But_ it wouldn’t be an isekai story without a comedy of errors, would it?

Geralt takes _one step,_ slips on absolutely _nothing,_ and falls backwards.

_Onto the open chests._

****+500 000 XP × 5 × 3** **

****LEVEL UP!** **

****LEVEL UP!** **

****LEVEL UP!** **

****

_And so on. And on. And on._

“Hm.”

Geralt glances up at the top left.

****GERALT LV.185** **

****HP: 59271/59271** **

****MP: 60326/60326** **

_Ah, shit…_

Well, that’s that, then.

At least he’s got the mana to use all his cool new skills, right? And 184 skill points to buy _additional_ skills with.

Geralt was actually sort of looking forward to being in a new ‘game’. Yeah, it’s tedious to grind levels and build the best character he possibly can, but that’s also sort of what’s fun about it. The sense of _accomplishment_ every time he levels up! The anticipation of planning his skill choices! The excitement when he can _finally_ get the skill he’s been waiting ages for! Guess he won’t really get any of that now...

“Hm.”


	3. Chapter 3

The town of Axel welcomes him as a beginner adventurer, but it all turns to shit when he goes in to sign up with the guild.

All he has to fucking do is put his hand on a goddamn crystal so they can make his membership card, but _apparently,_ the receptionist can fucking _see his stats_ when he does that.

 _“Level 185?!”_ she exclaims in shock.

Of course, this leads to the whole alehouse coming to a grinding halt. He can _feel_ all of them staring at him.

Geralt is already _exhausted._

He takes his card when the receptionist offers it with a trembling hand. Geralt moves over to the representative from the merchant’s guild. He places a ruby the size of his fist on the table.

“How much?”

The merchant stares first at the ruby, then at Geralt, and then at the ruby again.

“I-I’m sorry, sir, b-but I don’t believe I have the necessary funds to purchase this from you,” he says. “Certainly, I could surely not even buy a stone of _half_ the size!”

“Hm.”

“B-But I can recommend you to one of my fellow merchants in the capital!” the merchant appeals, while for some odd reason quivering like a leaf in the wind.

“Good.”

Geralt puts the ruby back in his bag. The merchant quickly writes down the information of his kin and hands it over.

Geralt reads the note, then eyes the merchant. “They buy anything?”

“Whatever piques their interest, I assure,” the pudgy little man promises, sweat dripping. “That ruby would certainly do it, sir, I’m sure!”

“Hm. Armour? Weapons? Books?”

“A-Armour and weapons, yes, i-if they’re deemed su-sufficiently interesting. The books a-are more likely. It would depend o-on the topic, though.”

“Hm.”

Geralt moves from the reception area into the alehouse proper. Everyone is still staring at him. He sits down at an empty table, which happens to be in a far corner. A waitress hurries over to him.

“What can I get for you, sir?” she asks with big eyes and a stupid grin.

“Food. Drink. Doesn’t matter much what it is.” He puts a handful of gold on the table. “Keep the change.”

The girl sweeps the coins onto the tray she carries, then all but runs for the kitchen. When she brings his food and drink, he eats quickly and quietly. While he eats, he brings out one of the books from the dungeon and uses _Translate_ to let him read it. The skill only lasts for five minutes per cast but at least there’s no annoying cool-down.

After only a few pages, something very annoying happens

Someone sits down at his table.

A young guy, twenties maybe. He’s got decent armor and a good-looking sword and shield. Likely not very high in level since this is a starter town. Probably wants to party up with Geralt to sponge XP and loot. A valid tactic, Geralt’s very familiar.

“-so what d’ya say, buddy?” the guy says. “Wanna join my party?”

Wait, has he been talking this whole time?

“We’re not in your league, sure, but I’d say we’re decent enough!” he continues.

“No.”

The guy stares at him. “No? Wh- Why not?”

Geralt looks back down at his book. “I’m reading. Leave.”

“But-”

Geralt closes his book and gets up. _“No.”_

He leaves the alehouse. Doesn’t seem like he’ll be able to read in peace there anyway. He stops briefly in the reception area and looks over the notice board.

Hm, as he feared, all the quests are low-level stuff. The kind of stuff he was _looking forward_ to doing, sure, but they seem pointless now. His level is absurdly high, he’s got enough gold to last a lifetime, and more gear than he knows what to do with.

Guess he’ll have to head straight for the capital, then. At least to sell off some stuff he’s never going to use. Maybe the quests there are actually worth doing.

He goes to the merchant again.

“Got any teleportation crystal to bring me to the capital?”

“C-Certainly. But it will cost many gold, sir.”

“How much?”

“A hundred and fifty gold.”

Geralt leaves the guild with a new crystal. Once outside, he channels mana into it and lets himself be whisked away in a flash of light.

*

Teleporting in games was never a big deal, of course, but doing it in real life? Geralt is _not_ a fan. It’s disorienting as hell and makes him sick to his stomach, and also sort of makes him regret not just getting a damn horse instead.

Beyond that, the capital seems like a pretty nice place.

As far as people go, he sees mainly humans, though with some elves scattered about and demi-humans of all different sorts; a merchant selling grilled meats as a very impressive lion’s mane, and the cloth merchant a few stalls over has an large set of bull’s horns and a swaying tail, and such. From what he can see, there doesn’t seem to be any _major_ segregation between the races which is always nice. Geralt’s glad he can avoid at least the worst of that sort of thing. It’s likely there’s still some casual racism and Geralt hates all that _lesser evil_ crap but in this case, he supposes he’s glad it _is_ the lesser evil the world has to deal with, rather than the greater, even if racism of any sort is fucking _awful._

The city itself seems to be modeled after maybe the renaissance era? Maybe? He was never big on architecture and such, his expertise on the subject comes mostly from movies, but yeah, this looks sort of like a set from a renaissance era period piece. Maybe with some medieval influences? Who knows, it looks _cool,_ is all he can say about it really.

It’s easy enough to get a room at a decent inn, and to find his way to the heart of the business district, where he scouts out several shops to unload his inventory with. The gems and such will probably go directly to the merchant’s guild; he doubts anyone else would be willing to buy them. The armor, weapons, and books, though, can likely be distributed more easily.

He starts with an armory, where he presents one of the swords to the shopkeeper. The burly man uses the _Appraisal_ skill then unexpectedly turns rather _green_ at the gills.

“Somethin’ wrong?” Geralt asks.

“I-I-I can’t take _this!”_ the shopkeeper says, thrusting the sword back into Geralt’s hands. “I couldn’t possibly! Not at all! It’d cost me ten times what the rest of my stock is worth combined! _More than that!”_

“Uh. O-Okay. Why...?”

The man stares at him, shocked. _“The fool doesn’t even know what he has!”_ he says, as if to himself. “This- This is an item of _Legendary_ rank! The _highest_ rank! No matter how capable the smith, no human can _possibly_ achieve such a thing!” He studies the thing reverently as he continues, “Beyond that, it carries the name _Leafsplitter!_ A treasure of the elven royal family! It’s been missing for centuries now! _Where did you find it?!_ The elves would lose their _minds_ if they heard it was found!”

Oh, for fuck's sake…

****HIDDEN QUEST UNLOCKED:** **

****THE LOST TREASURE OF ELVES** **

“I found it in a dungeon,” Geralt says. “Guess I’ll have to return it to the elves.”

The armorer nods jerkily. “The King of Dol Blathanna will reward you handsomely for it, I’m sure.”

“Hm.”

Alright, well, that was a bust. Seems like Geralt has to drag this garbage around with him for a while longer. He’ll buy _Appraisal_ once he’s back the inn and look over everything else. Hopefully, he’s not lugging around any more national fucking treasures. Fingers crossed, but knowing his luck so far...

Back to the inn, then.

And _of course,_ after obtaining all five levels of _Appraisal_ and checking every single thing he grabbed from the dungeon, including gems and books, Geralt determines that he _is_ carrying more national treasures.

The Crown Jewels of Nilfgaard, the Sword of Cintra, the Skellige War-Axe, the Shield of Kerack, the Lost Crown of Temeria, and so on, so forth.

So, whoever made that fucking dungeon obviously had a penchant for _theft._ On basically the highest scale, too. Stealing from _several_ royal houses? _Who does that?_ And _why_ would you do it? All of it was just sitting in that stupid dungeon for seemingly no reason!

Geralt would like to speak to the manager.

****

****HIDDEN QUESTS UNLOCKED:** **

****THE LOSS OF CINTRA** **

****TEMERIA’S WILTED LILIES** **

****KERACK’S GUARD** **

****THE BLADES OF THE ISLES** **

****JEWELS OF NILFGAARD** **

****… PLEASE OPEN QUEST TAB TO VIEW ADDITIONAL QUESTS!** **

Well, the map says he’s currently _in_ Cintra, so he might as well start there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> our boys gonna have some company soon, i promise


	4. Chapter 4

Geralt bows stiffly to the Queen. “Majesty.”

She regards him with sharp eyes. “I was told an adventurer with a _very_ high level was requesting an audience, regarding some of the kingdom’s lost belongings,” she says. “I hope you were not _lying_ about those belongings.”

“I wasn’t, your Majesty,” Geralt tells her. “I discovered an undisturbed dungeon west of Axel and gained entrance to it. Cintra’s lost treasures were kept within.”

The court whispers and fusses along the edges of the chamber. _An undisturbed dungeon? No such thing has been seen in hundreds of years! And within Cintra’s own borders, to boot!_

“This dungeon. _How_ did you gain access?” the Queen questions.

“I spoke friend and entered,” he hums, trying his best not to laugh at how stupid it sounds.

 _“Excuse me?”_ she asks, eyebrows shooting up in shock.

“Hm. There’re hills in a circle, with one in the center. Stand on the center hill and say _mellon._ Sindarin for _friend._ And the dungeon will open for you. Except it’s empty now.”

“Sindarin? The elven language?” Calanthe says, the tone of her voice clearly telling how surprised she is by this. “You speak that tongue?”

“That’s not relevant to what we are discussing. I have the treasures for you.”

He opens his inventory. First, the Sword of Cintra, at which the whole court falls into awe. Next, some random breastplate that according to _Appraisal,_ belonged to some old Cintran king at some point, then a few cool pieces of jewelry and some gems. Everyone seems to stare at him while he piles the stuff up on the floor in front of him.

“That is all, your Majesty,” Geralt says once he’s done. “Shall we move on to the matter of the reward, then?”

“You’ve done a great service for the country of Cintra,” the queen says, lips pursing. “Taking your level into account, I do not think I would be in the wrong to take you in as a Royal Knight, so that you may further serve the great crown of Cintra.”

Geralt takes a deep breath. “I’m not interested.”

“Welcome to the Royal Kni- _Excuse me?!”_ the Queen stops herself, clearly shocked and appalled. “You’re refusing me?”

The man shrugs. “I have things to do. Those things don’t include serving a queen or a country I hold no loyalty for.”

Calanthe scoffs and she looks ready to tear Geralt to shreds. “I hope you are aware that your words could constitute treason.”

“They cannot. To commit treason one must first have sworn some type of loyalty the nation they’re betraying. I’ve done no such thing. I’m not committing treason. I’m just telling you I’m not interested in working for you.”

“Your guild card lists your nation of origin as Cintra,” the queen asserts, grinning as though she has won this battle. “Being born into the nation is its own oath of loyalty.”

“The nation of origin only lists where the card was _issued,_ which was in Axel. If anything, my loyalty is to the guild, but even that’s questionable. I only joined the guild to travel more freely. Ask me, and I’ll say my allegiance is to myself. Not you, not your crown, not your country,” Geralt tells her very firmly. “Hell, if you’re going to insist on continuing like this, I’ll just take these treasures, which rightfully belong to me as I claimed them from a dungeon therefore giving me most current right of ownership, and be on my way.”

 _“You will do no such thing!”_ Geralt is sure that voice does strike a good a mount of fear into her people, but he finds it doesn’t have that effect on him.

“You’re welcome to try to stop me,” Geralt says and begins to pick up his things again.

 _“Knights! Seize this man!”_ Calanthe screams.

The rustle of armor announces their movement.

 _“Quen,”_ Geralt whispers, casting one of the many hidden skills he learned in the dungeon.

A shield made of light constructs itself around him. With his level, it’s probably strong enough that these knight would need years to break through it. With his things all back in his inventory, he heads for the door.

“I was gonna give ‘em to you for free but now you’ve annoyed me so if you want your shit back, you’re gonna have to buy it,” he shouts to the Queen as he leaves.

The ball of light that surrounds him follows as he moves. The knights beyond it look quite bewildered. A few try to swing their swords at it but it does nothing but make an awful racket. Still, they follow him all the way to the castle gates before deciding to give up, which Geralt will commend them for; at least they tried their best.

He lets the shield fall once he’s a distance from the castle.

“Well, _that_ was quite a show, wasn’t it?”

Geralt turns around. Before him stands a lanky beanpole of a man, dressed in all sorts of gaudy silks and a hat with a big colorful feather sticking out of it, and a lute hanging off his shoulder. Pretty to look at, if he had to say. Bright eyes and a big smile. Suppose he was playing for the court when Geralt came for business, then.

“Show’s over. Go away,” Geralt growls.

Geralt starts walking. The guild should still be open. He should get around to checking the quests. Hm, a beer wouldn’t go amiss either.

“Love how you just basically told the Queen to go do one. _The Queen!_ The _balls_ on you, mate! Lucky you had that shield thingy or she’d’ve had your head!”

And of course the bard’s following him. Great.

Maybe if he just ignores the problem, it will go away.

But when so far has anything gone as Geralt wanted it to?

The bard catches up to him swiftly, and throws his arm around Geralt’s shoulders. Geralt’s skin prickles at the uninvited, unwanted touch.

“Where are we off to, then?” the bard says excitedly. “The coast is lovely this time of year! We could do some fishing, swimming, sunbathing, you name it! It’ll be grand!”

Geralt takes him by the wrist and forcibly removes the arm from where it’s wrapped around him. _“Leave, bard,”_ he snaps, but the man hardly seems to notice.

“Oh, you’re absolutely right!” he replies, as though Geralt has said something pleasant as Geralt lets go of him. “How rude of me, I haven’t even introduced myself!”

_“Not interested.”_

“Jaskier the bard, at your service!” the man continues still, gesturing grandiosely with his bejeweled hands. “Greatest bard to ever come out of Dol Blathanna’s heavenly meadows, some say! Right or wrong, I do not know, but I do appreciate the flattery. As they say, flattery will get you _everywhere!”_

Dol Blathanna? An elf, then. Geralt remembers the armorer calling the elven land Dol Blathanna. Hm, can’t see the bard’s ears to confirm it, though, as his long hair and ridiculous fancy hat obscures them.

“And you, my dearest friend?” His hand-gestures are grand, and _distracting._ “What, pray tell, is the name of the man with balls of steel who stood up against the Lionness of Cintra? I simply _must_ know!”

Ignoring him isn’t working. Maybe a conversation will sate his curiosity and get rid of him.

“Geralt.”

 _“Geralt!_ A lovely name! A hero’s name, if I do say so!” He claps his hands with excitement and goes on. “Oh, the stories I could tell of Geralt, the hero! No, no, no, that’s a little too on the nose. How about, _Geralt the brave!_ Oh, no, I’ve got it! Geralt the mighty!”

“Geralt, the guy who’s going to end your life if you don’t shut up,” the man himself pitches in bitterly.

“Well, I can see you’re not a poet!” the bard says with a laugh.

 _“Stealth,”_ Geralt whispers under his breath.

He feels the skill take effect; he can feel himself fading from view and once he’s invisible, he turns on his toes and bolts.

“Geralt? Geralt, where did you go, old friend?” Jaskier talks somewhere behind him.

Geralt only has a minute of invisibility to make use of, and he’s going to use it to get the hell away from this annoying bastard. He runs as fast as he can; he swerves around the first corner he sees and keeps going, taking random turns and unplanned paths to make sure he is not easily followed.

He doesn’t stop until the minute is up.

Alright, with that problem solved, he heads for the guild headquarters. The walk there is _blissfully_ uneventful.

Searching the notice board at the guild, he finds a few quests that look interesting. Seems the ‘difficulty’ ramps up just like in a game. They’re still, of course, quite a bit below Geralt’s level but he figures it’s the best he’s going to get for now.

Slay a golden dragon, conquer a thus far unbeatable dungeon, kill the monster haunting the woods, and such. Nothing too out of the ordinary, considering the setting.

He takes all three.

 _“Geralt!_ There you are, dear friend!” cries a happy voice.

Whoever is god of this world really just continues to test Geralt’s patience.

He turns around. The bard has stumbled into the guild, now smiling and waving at his ‘friend’.

“I lost sight of you some time ago,” the bard continues as he comes over and hooks his arm with Geralt. “Destiny blesses me, though, by bringing me right back to your side again!”

He drags Geralt into the alehouse and shoves him into a seat at a table.

“So what’s the plan, my dear? Where are we going next?”

“Please leave me alone,” Geralt asks ineffectually.

He is beginning to feel the pinpricks of a headache.

“I’ve heard the coast is lovely this time of year, I said before, and there must be loads of work in such an area for an adventurer like yourself! I’ve even heard rumors of a kraken being sighted up north!”

Geralt sighs.

“Wouldn’t that make for a lovely song! Geralt the brave conquering the kraken which has been plaguing the gentle common folk!” He looks like he’s already started composing the song in his mind.

Hm. Maybe a kraken could be a fun pass-time. He’s never fought one of those before, not in any of the games he’s played. Could be interesting.

**_**JASKIER THE BARD** _ ** ****HAS JOINED YOUR PARTY!** **

****… PLEASE CHECK THE** ** **_**PARTY** _ ** ****TAB TO SEE YOUR PARTY** **

_Ah, fuck._ Geralt did _not_ agree to that. When he looks at the bard, he answers only with a self-satisfied grin, as if he got the same notification.

He opens his menu with a swipe and tabs the _Party_ tab, which was _not_ there before. If there’s a way to get this idiot off his party, it’s probably on that screen.

****JASKIER LV.49** **

****HP: 1821/1821** **

****MP: 2408/2408** **

****RACE: ELF** **

****CLASS: BARD, SCHOLAR, TRAVELER** **

****WEAPON:** **

****ARMOR:** **

Level 49, as a _bard?_ How the hell did he accomplish that? And he _must_ be a fool, is he’s a _Traveler_ with no armor or weapons. Elf or not, it’s a miracle this dumbass has survived this far.

“You’re level 49.”

The bard hums as a waitress delivers them each an ale. “I’m an _elf,_ dear. Live as long as I have, and the XP tends to pile up, I suppose.”

Geralt frowns. “How old are you?”

Jaskier gasps with faux shock. _“Oh, dear!_ What a rude question to ask your most dearest friend,” he says, though grinning. “But if you _must_ know, I suppose I’m about a thousand years old. You lose count after the first few centuries though, so I can’t say I’m particularly certain.”

“You speak Sindarin?”

“Well, of course I do, my dear!” Jaskier laughs. “I’m an elf, after all! Though, the language has changed _a lot_ since I was young, but yes, I do speak Sindarin.”

Hm.

Maybe this fool might turn out to be useful.

Geralt does _know_ Sindarin, but it is, in his own world, an incomplete language, in the end. It’s hard to be fully fluent in a language when said language is not even _complete._

 _But_ if elves speak Sindarin _here,_ then they must have at some point filled in the blanks that Tolkien left behind, thereby making it a _complete_ usable language.

Geralt _can_ use the _Translate_ skill but as Sindarin tends to be a flowery language, things do get lost in translation. Though if he had a native speaker of the language do the translating, that could be remedied.

“I’ll let you come with me for a while, if you do something for me in return.”

Jaskier hums, smirking, batting his lashes and pouting his lips. “If you _insist,”_ he purrs. “I’m sure you’ve acquired a room already?”

Geralt frowns. _“Not that kind of something.”_

 _“Aw,”_ Jaskier says, pouting for real this time. “But I was so looking forward to it!”

“No.”

The bard sighs. “Alright, then. What absolutely _indecent_ things will you have me do instead?”

Geralt switches to the _Inventory_ tab and picks one of the books in Sindarin, which he was unable to fully comprehend. There were many names, measurements, and lists in this particular book, which meant that _Translate_ was all but useless.

“Tell me what this is about. _Translate_ won’t cut it.”

Jaskier takes a long drink of his ale, then takes the book. He inspects the title for a moment, before opening it and leafing through the pages.

“Ah, yes, it’s a codex, you see,” he explains. “It contains what seems to be a collection of recipes for all sorts of medicines we elves use. It’s not often we fall ill, but when we do, it most often tends to be quite serious, and these medicines are then of course used to treat those who have fallen ill.”

“Hm.”

Interesting. Geralt takes the book back and offers another.

“And this one?”

Jaskier looks through the new volume as well. “Oh, how interesting! It looks like a collection of some scholar’s research into what makes the races different from one another, such as their strengths and weaknesses, and so on.”

Hm, a breakdown of each race’s stats, basically. That could be _really_ useful.

“Is it still applicable?” Geralt asks, intrigued. “It’s been in a dungeon for who knows how long.”

“Yes, I believe the broad strokes of it should still apply, though some of the more detailed observations may have been subject to change over time, I’m sure you understand. Look!” He turns the book around, pointing to the chapter heading. “There’s even a list of some monster species, though it seems to be only of the lower ranks. Slimes, direwolves, wildcats, goblins, that sort of thing.”

Geralt flags down a waitress, might as well get some food while they’re here. While they eat, he has Jaskier read out loud for him.

 _“And on the subject of those we call demi-humans, much can be written as there are many branches this particular family tree, though we shall attempt brevity as there are many more things to speak of than only this,”_ Jaskier reads between bites of his food. “Uch, this fellow was _not_ a compelling writer, in my humble opinion.”

“Keep going,” Geralt grunts.

“Alright, alright, settle down. Where was I? Oh, yes! _The main physiology of demi-humans remains similar in its basic build, to that of normal humans. Internally and externally, they appear all but identical, though the demi-humans of course have the additional animalistic features which leads to their classification as_ demis. _The most common traits displayed by demis are the tail and ears of whichever beast they take after, though some small variances may exist. For example, a lizard demi will have the tail of a lizard but the ears of a human, and instead display the eyes and tongue of a lizard, or perhaps a scale-like quality to their skin. Similarly, a cat demi may have the ears and tail of a cat, while also displaying a cat-like pelt covering their skin.”_

Geralt chews on his steak and listens intently.

_“The weaknesses of a demi are very similar to those of a human, such as starvation, dehydration, and so on. As a general rule, if it could end the life of a human, it would also similarly end the life of a demi. Yet, a demi may also have the additional weaknesses of whichever animal they take after. A demi with the traits of a cold-blooded animal will be extremely sensitive to cold temperatures, while being instinctively drawn to warmer climates. A dog demi would be poisoned by things such as chocolate and grapes, because while these can freely be enjoyed by a human, they can indeed be fatal for a dog to imbibe.”_

Makes sense.

Jaskier continues to read as they finish their meal, but even then, they’re barely halfway through the section on demis.

“Could you transcribe the text?” Geralt asks as they leave the guild-house. “It’d be faster if I could read it for myself.”

“Suppose so, but it would also take time to do the actual transcriptions,” Jaskier argues, _smartly_ for once. “And since I’m assuming you’ve got more than just two books for me to translate, it would take massive amounts of time. With little rest, I could likely finish a rough draft of one volume in perhaps a week?”

“Hm.”

Maybe having him read them is better. If they get some horses, they could hitch Jaskier’s horse to Geralt’s and Jaskier could even read to him _while_ they travel. That just wouldn’t be possible with transcriptions.

“Get a horse. Meet me at the east gate tomorrow morning.”

“Meet you? We’re not rooming together?” He actually looks _genuinely_ confused.

“Absolutely not.”

“Then...where am I staying?”

“Wherever you want, as long as it’s not with me.”

Geralt heads off in the direction of his inn.

“You play coy now, but I’ll charm your pants off one of these days, you lovely oaf of a man!” Jaskier shouts after him, laughing.

Geralt hopes one of his healing spells can fix the headache Jaskier has so _kindly_ gifted him with.


	5. Chapter 5

Come morning, Geralt goes to the eastern gate where he heard a man was selling horses from his breeding farm. After some browsing, negotiating, and haggling, Geralt walks away with a young mare he names Roach, whose stats are a good balance between endurance, speed, and strength. She’ll serve him well, he hopes. After buying the _Animal Taming_ skill, he quickly has her eating out of the palm of his hand.

Still, he has to wait _two hours_ before the damn bard deigns to grace them with his bloody presence.

 _“Geralt!”_ the fool shouts, running to meet him, waving like a madman with his lute and his backpack bouncing on either his shoulder. “I’m here, Geralt!”

The adventurer gets up from where he has been sitting in the shade of a tree, waiting. He frowns as Jaskier finally reaches him.

“I said _morning._ It’s almost _noon,”_ he bites at the elf.

 _“Ah, ah, ah!”_ Jaskier tuts, though, wagging his finger. “But it’s still _before_ noon! That means it’s _still_ morning!”

Geralt sighs. Ah, there it is again, the headache.

“Make me wait again, and I’ll leave you behind.”

The bard gasps, offended. “You’d leave poor little old _me_ behind?”

Geralt doesn’t hesitate. “Yes, without a doubt.”

“Oh, that put-upon rudeness of yours, you won’t scare me away so easily, my dear!” Jaskier says, chuckling.

“What’s rude, is making me wait for you for two hours. Get a horse and lets go.”

“Oh, you didn’t buy one?”

“I did buy one. _For me._ Get one for yourself or start walking.”

“But horses _hate_ me! Dunno why, but they _always_ have!”

And as if to prove his point, he grabs Geralt by the arm and tugs him along to the stables. As soon as he enters, the horse in the closest box sticks its head out and tries to eat Jaskier’s fancy hat. And as they keep moving, each of the horses tries to do the same. Damn, looks like horses really _do_ hate the poor bastard. Or maybe they just don’t agree with his fashion choices.

Geralt grabs Roach and leads her out of the stables, while Jaskier follows a distance away to keep from getting bit or kicked or something. Once Geralt’s up in the saddle, he pulls Jaskier up to sit behind him, which makes Roach stomp and fuss for a bit. Using his _Animal Taming_ skill, he eases her into calmness again. Hopefully, that will be good enough to keep the fool from getting his head kicked in.

He has the dungeon quest activated, so a small marker floats around his HUD to show him its location. According to the notice, they should get there without issue if they just follow the roads. They’ll travel along the river east then cross it, to Dillingen. From there, Owl Hills should supposedly only be a stone’s throw away.

Of course, this is only according to the information on the notice, since Geralt was a _moron_ and didn’t buy a map of any sort. Hm. Maybe they’ll make a short stop in Dillingen to get a map before heading to the dungeon.

*

They reach the dungeon a day and a half later. It took _all day_ just to reach Dillingen, where they were both too exhausted to keep going. The day after, it took _hours_ to get through the maze-like woods that blocked their way.

Maybe Geralt should rethink his stance on teleporting. It’s _awful,_ yes, but _so is going on horseback._ And it takes _such a long time!_ He knew this place was realistic, but on this matter, Geralt could go for a little _less_ realism.

His _ass_ hurts. He forgot how _painful_ riding is. He hadn’t gone with his family on their last few outings, so even before he died, he’d become unused to the feeling.

Maybe he should invest in some sort of carriage for Roach to pull, he noticed she had the skill when he purchased her. At least that would make the journeys _a little_ more bearable.

Fuck it. They’re here now. Geralt’s going to tackle the dungeon first, and he can take on the rest afterwards.

Horror of horrors, there’s a massive camp set up around the dungeons entrance. Jaskier is, of course, _delighted._ Geralt is _not._

It’s easy to convince Jaskier to go ask around. Geralt takes care of Roach in the mean time. He has just finished untacking her and hitching her with a gang of other horses near a large pail of water, when Jaskier returns.

“What’s going on?”

“Seems they’re all adventurers, my dear! The quest was posted in just about every guild-house in the nearest five countries. Everyone’s come to reap their share of the glory, I’m sure!” Jaskier explains, keeping a _healthy_ distance from the horses who all seem to be giving him the stink-eye. “The dungeon, called _Owl’s Home_ I’m told, was discovered some eight hundred years ago. People have been going in and out ever since! It’s a bit of trouble, though. Apparently, it’s a bit of a maze, and most of the paths are blocked by puzzles, riddles, and such, as well as monsters. A lot of it has been cleared out by now, but from what the explorer’s have gathered so far, there are still undiscovered paths all over and more levels to gain access to.”

“Hm…”

Sounds interesting.

“Is there a map?” he asks.

Jaskier hums. He fishes a scroll out of one of his pockets, and offers it to Geralt, who unrolls it quickly. It turns out to be several pages rolled up together.

Hm, sure does look like a maze. Each of the pages show one or two levels each, depending on their size and how they’ve been able to fit on the same sheet. There are some traps marked out, along with the puzzles that remain unsolved and doors that remain unopened. Geralt opens his _Map_ tab. It’s a relief to see just looking at these maps have also unlocked them in his menus.

“It looks like there are a few parties in the dungeon now but no one else’s planning on going in today.”

“Hm.”

“I’d suggest gathering more information and we can go in tomorrow!”

“We’re going in now,” Geralt decides. “I’m checking my gear, then I’m going in. Come along or not, your choice, just don’t start trouble.”

Jaskier whines, pouting. _”Aw,_ you’re no fun. _Alright, then!_ I hope you’ve got some gear to lend me because I have none!”

Geralt sighs. He hands the maps back to the bard, then takes a walk around camp. Everyone seems friendly enough; they’ve all got the same goal in the end, tough, so the competitive atmosphere is easy to notice. At least everyone is staying civil.

He finds a quiet, out-of-the-way corner and starts scrolling through his inventory. Given his level, it’s likely he’ll be fine no matter what, but he might as well look the part.

Thankfully, there were some sets in the dungeon that _aren’t_ national treasures. He changes from his current set to one that is somewhat similar, though with a few better stat. Black studded leather armor; chest, paulders, greaves, vambraces, and matching boots. It feels heavy, for being leather.

That’s good; now he looks like any of the other adventurers milling about.

Weapons next. After some browsing, he weighs two different swords against each other, even though they seem to be part of a duo based on the small star symbol next to either item’s name. One silver _(the Starmetal Blade)_ , one steel _(the Bane of Men)_. The silver has boosted stats against mobs, while the steel is boosted against people. It’s a dungeon, so he’ll only really be fighting mobs now, but he _does_ like the steel sword too.

Hm.

He equips both. They _are_ a pair, after all. They were made to be used together. They appear on his back, hanging together from the same harness.

****REQUIREMENTS MET!** **

****HIDDEN CLASS UNLOCKED:** **

**_**WITCHER** _ **

What the hell’s a Witcher? He taps the pop-up, which brings him to his player screen. He taps the new title listed under his classes, opening a small information window.

****WITCHER:** **

****Witchers are soldiers of legend, said to have been created by mages to combat the monsters plaguing the Continent, and the evil men who aid them. Stronger and faster than even the elves, the orcs, and the demis, they are a force for peace for the common folk.** **

Interesting. He hasn’t heard the title before. He would’ve assumed that a class like that would be more widely known and talked about.

****HIDDEN QUEST UNLOCKED!** **

****MAKING A WITCHER:** **

****-** ** **_**GO TO KAER MORHEN** _ **

And a new quest to go with it. Geralt can only guess doing the quest will teach him more about Witchers. He’ll have to look into it later, and ask Jaskier what he knows about Witchers.

Speaking of the bard, he selects a few pieces which would likely suit him: lightweight, elven, and covered in an unnecessary amount of decorations. Through the party messaging function, they arrange to meet at the dungeon’s entrance.

 _“Look at you!”_ Jaskier says as they meet up, more than happy to ogle Geralt in his new outfit. “Love the armor! And _two_ swords? _Very_ sexy.”

“Shut up and get dressed,” Geralt grunts, already unloading the bard’s armor on him.

Jaskier quickly outfits himself; thankfully, without any complaining. Thank god he took off that stupid hat too.

“One of the parties already camping here said they’d let us bunk with them,” he says as he is attaching a sword and scabbard to his hip. “The woman I spoke to said she’d appreciate it if we paid for our share of the food and such, but that’s all. Lovely woman, I must say! Incredibly generous of her!”

“Hm. Stay behind me. Stay quiet. Stay alive,” Geralt orders.

“Oh, I do so love your brevity, my dear,” Jaskier coos at him with a flirtatious grin. “Such few words to speak such volumes, it’s quite a talent!”

Geralt ties his hair back tightly. He turns to the dungeon.

It’s entrance is set into the wall of the small mountains that make up the Owl Hills. It’s an elegant, ornate arch carved out of the stone, the shapes of owls sculpted to decorate it. One owl, the largest of the lot, is made to sit atop the arch, his wings spread wide and his sharp eyes staring at those who would dare to enter, as if to judge their merit.

He takes one of the torches from a barrel left sitting outside, lighting it with a short burst of magic.

They enter.

The paths they take have long since been cleared; there are neither mobs nor loot to be found there. He ignores most of the branching paths, even those that lead to locked area. This early in the dungeon, there likely isn’t anything very worthwhile even behind those locked doors.

Instead, they take the roads leading downwards, descending level by level.

The further down they come, mobs begin to speckle the halls. The floor hasn’t been cleared yet; things are still spawning in. They’ll continue to do so, until the entrance to the next floor is opened.

He shoves Jaskier up front. His level is relatively high, but he could stand to gain the XP. Geralt wants to see what he’s capable of, too.

Though clumsy and uncoordinated, Jaskier slashes at the undead beasts. Skeletons mostly, though with a few zombies scattered among them. Not only humanoid in form either, but also some animals; wolves, werecats, and such.

Geralt watches the XP trickle into Jaskier’s gauge, which is displayed just below Geralt’s own, though in a slightly smaller size. A share of the XP even falls to Geralt, thanks to their party connection.

“How’s that?” Jaskier pants after cutting down the last undead in this particular bunch. “Not bad, right?”

Geralt crooks a brow. “You’re clumsy.”

Jaskier giggles. “Well, _excuse me!_ It’s been a few decades since last I used a sword, you see,” he explains. “I much prefer my darling lute, to these over-grown table knives.”

“Then you should’ve stayed in Cintra,” Geralt says, shoving past the bard.

They continue to descend.

At long last, they reach the wall which adventurers have believed will lead to the next floor.

Torch in hand, Geralt inspects the wall. As it was noted on the map he looked at, the words carved into the stone are not written using the letters he’s come to know as _Common,_ but instead, in some form of runic script.

It’s Khuzdul, he realizes, because _why would it be anything else?_ Of course the Tolkien-nut of a god who made this world would use Khuzdul too.

“Zi- Zirin. Thikim? Wait, no, this is _L,_ so it’s... Thikil. That’s...B, A, and D, and then here again. This is A too, so that makes _abad,_ which means...king,” Geralt talks aloud to himself, fingers running over the runs as he deciphers them. “That’s Z, like zirin, and this one is- what’s this one again? Um. _U,_ it’s _U,_ so the word is uzbad. Uzbad... That’s- Hm, that’s _mountain._ Iron, steel, king, mountain.”

“You can read those?” Jaskier asks curiously, sidling up next to Geralt.

“Hm. Sort of. It’s Khuzdul, which was never my strong suit. I’m better with Quenya and Tengwar, to be perfectly honest.”

 _“You know Quenya too?!”_ Jaskier all but shouts.

“Yes, I was bored, now shut up,” Geralt orders, still focusing on the inscription. “Okay. Start from the top. _This thing, eats things, bird, animal, wood, bloom, bite iron, bite steel, grind rock powder. Dead king, fall town, crush mountain.”_

“What’s all that mean, then?” Jaskier hums, scratching his head.

A thing that eats all things, birds, animals, wood, and flowers, bites iron and steel, grinds rocks to powder... Dead king, fall town? Kills kings, maybe? Makes towns fall? Khuzdul is an _annoying_ language in that way. Everything is so contextual.

 _“Oh my fucking God, I know what it is,”_ Geralt groans, when the memory strikes him. “This thing all things devours. Birds, beasts, trees, flowers, gnaws iron, bites steel, grinds hard stones to meal, slays kings, ruins towns, and beats mountains down. It’s time. The answer is time. _Adrân!”_

Jaskier yelps, Geralt startles, when a resounding _crack_ of stone reverberates through the tunnel. The wall blocking the path splits down the middle, a crack appearing in the rock. The crack spreads, until the wall can do nothing but fall apart and crumble away.

The tunnel continues past it, unhindered now.

A _whoosh_ of air blasts past them, flowing freely into the tunnels again for the first time in who knows how long. Dust and cobwebs float through the air, the smell of moss and mould and stale air filling their noses. The torch flickers at the assault but manages to fight through it to stay alight.

Warily, they step past the threshold left behind. Once beyond it, Geralt turns back.

 _“Illusion,”_ he says, casting the magic skill.

The image of a wall materializes, hiding the fact that passage has been opened.

“Isn’t that a bit…rude? Unsportsmanlike, perhaps?” Jaskier hums behind him.

“If they can’t solve the riddle, they don’t deserve to pass,” Geralt tells him.

Competition is competition; Geralt is just bettering the odds that he reaches the finish-line first.

Geralt hands the torch to Jaskier, then draws his silver sword.

They continue on.

The path is short, leading almost immediately to a set of ladders carved into the stone (much like they used to descend, earlier in the dungeon). From there, the way seems straightforward enough. There are a few branching paths, which they stop to explore briefly, but they lead only to dead-ends where groups of mobs have congregated. Geralt exterminates them swiftly and they keep moving.

It isn’t long before they hit another riddle wall.

As Geralt isn’t very good at riddles, he’s very thankful that it’s one he recognizes and actually know the answer to.

 _“Voiceless it cries, wingless flutters, toothless bites, mouthless mutters,”_ he reads aloud. “Can you guess it?”

Jaskier hums. “Neither mouth, teeth, voice, or wings, but cries, flutters, bites, and mutters. Hm… Honestly, it sounds like there’s a simple answer, but… I’m not sure.”

 _“Bagd,”_ Geralt says, making this wall crumble like the last.

“What does that mean?” Jaskier asks once the wind has settled.

“Wind.”

 _“Ah!_ Wind!” Jaskier exclaims. “Now that you say it, it makes sense, honestly.”

“The best riddles are the ones that trick you into overthinking.”

It’s surprising to find no ladder any time soon after the riddle wall. The last wall hid the next level, and if word was to be believed, each previous floor had also been behind such a wall.

Instead, Geralt notices after some time, the floor seems to lean. They _are_ being lead to descend, but not in the same way as they had before.

Hm. A change in layout is a surefire sign that _something_ is coming, in dungeons (if games have taught him right).

“Stay on guard,” he whispers to his companion.

The bard does not speak, only humming softy in response. Well, at least the fool has _some_ modicum of sense in him.

They move slowly, cautiously.

“No mobs,” Jaskier remarks in a whisper, after some minutes of walking. “Should’ve been some by now, right?”

“Hm.”

He’s right. There should have been at least _some_ mobs by then, but since coming through the riddle wall, there have been none.

This mystery is shortly unraveled for them, though.

The tunnel comes to an end, opening instead into a vast chamber. Geralt can see faint glitters, the torchlight reflected off something, and a brighter glow at the cambers far end, though this glow seems obstructed by something they cannot yet see.

They step inside the chamber. As soon as they do, the flame seems to jump from their torch to the lanterns hanging from the ceiling. One by one, the flame dances from one lantern to the next, until the whole chamber is bathed in warm, orange light.

Jaskier gasps. Along the walls, there are piles upon piles of treasure. Gold coins, gems, jewelry, bars of ore, more than any one man could ever spend in a lifetime. Upon the walls themselves, there are words carved into the stone; a message left to whomsoever manages to reach this far?

Before he can even begin to _think_ about reading said message, Jaskier moves to touch the treasure, to take it. Geralt drops the torch and grabs him by the scruff of his neck.

“Do _not_ touch it.”

“But I _wanna!”_ the elf whines.

_“Do not.”_

_“Fine,_ I won’t touch it.”

He lets the bard go, allowing him to begin his pouting while Geralt cautiously moves deeper into the treasure room.

Geralt can now see what it was that disrupted that bright glow.

At the far end of the chamber, there stands a dwarf. Or, well, it _was_ a dwarf at some point, but now it has become an undead. He wears intricate dwarven armor, a long, red beard clinging to what little flesh remains of his face. A massive war-axe rests on his back. Somewhere behind the dwarf, the glow continues to shine brightly.

The dwarf’s bones rattle. His voice rumbles and fills the chamber. Geralt struggles to listen and mentally translate what’s being said.

 _Stranger, who has,_ something, _dwarven mine,_ something, _searching for treasure,_ something, _face challenge,_ something, _prove worthy,_ something, _white king._

With these context clues, Geralt can only assume he’s supposed to face a challenge or trial so he can prove himself worthy of this treasure, which _might_ have belonged to someone called _the white king._ Pure conjecture, of course, but fingers crossed he’s at least _somewhat_ close to being right.

And with that, the undead dwarf draws his axe.

 _“Shit,”_ Geralt swears. “Stay by the door.”

He hears Jaskier scramble and move behind him.

 _“Holy Edge!”_ Geralt says, calling forth the Holy magic to envelop his sword.

Undead count as Dark magic, which is weak against Holy magic.

Being a dungeon boss, the dwarf’s level must be relatively high and he may have even been a fierce warrior when he lived, but as an undead, he is clumsy, slow and shambling, swinging his axe near to blindly. Undead can only exist with _one_ mission in mind; the dwarf’s will surely be along the lies of _protect the treasure,_ or _find someone who is worthy._ This can be a good thing, it makes them unafraid and wiling to do _anything_ to accomplish their mission, but it can also be detrimental. It leaves no room for strategy.

He swings after Geralt; long, winding swipes, that Geralt can see coming from a mile away, which makes them _easy_ to dodge. And when he finds an opening, he swings his own weapon at the dwarf.

The armor and skeleton shatter under the impact of the sanctified weapon.

Geralt sheathes his sword as they bounce and clatter around.

When the helmet, and the skull within it, come to a halt, the dwarf speaks again.

Geralt listens closely again.

 _You have defeated,_ something that sounds like a name, _now proven worthy,_ something, _and may claim the Heart of the Mountain,_ something, _for the white king._

Again, pure conjecture, but Geralt’s assuming it’s something along the lines of _having defeated the dwarf (who’s name Geralt sadly didn’t quite understand), Geralt has proven himself worthy of taking the Heart which was meant to be for this white king guy._

With the guardian out of the way, the glow comes undisturbed from what Geralt can only assume is the Heart.

The gem, the size of both Geralt’s fists put together, at first appears to shimmer a brilliant white. On closer inspection, though, he can see very other color on the spectrum refracting here and there through its depths. It makes it look almost as through the stone is constantly shifting colors.

Geralt crosses the chamber and picks up the Heart from the ornate pedestal where it rests.

****QUEST:** ** **_**OWL’S HOME** _ **

**~~**\- CLEAR OWL’S HOME** ~~ **

**_**\- BRING OWL’S HEART TO KAER MORHEN** _ **

Kaer Morhen? That Witcher quest mentioned a Kaer too, didn’t it? Are they leading him to the same place, perhaps?

Geralt removes the bag from his belt, tossing it at Jaskier, who manages to catch it.

“Start gathering the treasure. If you see anything that looks important, let me know. We can divvy up for your share when we get back to Dillingen.”

“Sounds good to me! Nice work on the skeleton man, too!” Jaskier says as he starts scooping coins into the bag, stopping for a moment to wave his hand toward the head. “You really just...smashed him to bits, eh?”

“Hm.”

Geralt returns to the chamber’s entrance as the inscription seems to start there, then travel around the room to end on the other side of the archway.

From what he can tell just glancing at it, it seems almost like a story. A legend, maybe.

“Wolf crowned in white,” he reads aloud to himself as he follows the letters around the room. “King among the mountains. Fallen but not yet lost, and will return a…witch? Witcher? Will return a Witcher blessed by the goddess, to be the bringer of peace and herald of order. The king of Witchers bears the mountain’s… The mountain’s fury into battle. With the black… Hm. The black witch? And the lost prince, he is the sword and shield of…the people.”

Interesting. Sounds like a cool piece of mythology. Maybe he can find some books on it and learn the whole story. He commits it to memory, then goes to help Jaskier. There’s still plenty of treasure to be gathered up.

*

Everyone in the camp seems to be standing around waiting for something when Geralt and Jaskier finally get out. Geralt also isn’t sure he likes how everyone seems to be _staring_ at them.

“What’s going on?” he mutters as they shuffle through the disgruntled mob.

“Well, we not only stole the quest completion, we _also_ cleared the dungeon no one’s been able to clear in the eight hundred years since it was discovered,” Jaskier hums. _“And_ we only got here _today._ These people have probably been here for _weeks.”_

“Hm. Then they had _weeks_ of a head-start. Obviously that’s more than enough time,” the human grouses. “Not my fault they couldn’t get the job done.”

 _“Well..._ Suppose that is a valid point,” Jaskier admits, though while subtly herding Geralt toward the horses.

“C’mon. We can be back in Dillingen before dark if we hurry.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: i totally forgot i made horses hate jaskier IN THIS CHAPTER, and made him literally stand in the middle of a pack of them without getting his dumb ass Murdered, so big My Bad on that lol


	6. Chapter 6

Geralt spreads the map out over the desk in his room. He bought it as soon as they got back to Dillingen, even before finding an inn.

The map is... It’s huge. Bigger than he thought. Well, not the map itself, the physical object, but the _world._ This _world_ is bigger than he thought.

He knew it was big, of course; it’s a _continent,_ on a _planet,_ of course it’s going to be _huge._ But...he didn’t realize just _how big_ it actually is.

This is... It’s a proper continent. It’s a proper continent in a proper world. It’s _real._

It’s not...a game.

He’s been calling it a game, thinking of it as a game. _It’s just a game, he can do whatever he wants._ But it’s not a game. It’s real. This is real. This is real life.

This is his life now. This is everyone’s life. Everyone here… They’re alive. This is their world. It’s always been their world. It’s the only world they know, and now Geralt is in it too. This is _real._

He sits down on his bed.

This is Geralt’s new life.

Fuck, is he having an existential crisis? Is this what an existential crisis feels like? _Oh, fuck…_

Before he knows it, he’s curled up in the fetal position.

He could die at any moment and that’s it, _game over,_ except _for real!_ If he dies, he’s _done!_ Well, unless he dies while saving someone’s life, then Melitele said he could probably be reborn again, but _otherwise!_ Oh, fuck, this world is fucking _dangerous!_ There are mobs and monsters everywhere, and probably wars and PvP but for real, and _oh, god,_ he could literally just trip and _die!_ Fuck, he could’ve died in that first dungeon! He could’ve drowned if his clothes got to heavy in the water or if the shock of falling made him pass out! He could’ve bonked his head on those chests when he fell and cracked his head open! If whatever magic was on that place didn’t open the exit for him, he could’ve been stuck there and _starved to death!_

“Geralt? What’re you doing?”

He looks up. Jaskier stands in the door, a look of concern on his face.

Geralt sits up quickly. “Nothing. I just... Thinking. I was just...thinking. Why? What d’you want?”

Jaskier eyes him like he didn’t _quite_ buy that bluff. “There’s a woman downstairs asking for you. She said she needs to speak to you. Apparently, it’s _important,”_ the bard says, leaning on the door frame and rolling his eyes.

Geralt clears his throat. He gets up and grabs his map, then follows Jaskier downstairs. The lower floor of their inn also functions as a tavern, which is _packed_ with people. Suppose it’s getting late in the evening, everyone’s grabbing a drink after work or whatever.

Jaskier leads him to the bar, where indeed a woman waits. She doesn’t fit into the crowd, though. Not with a dress like that, which looks better suited for a royal court than a cheap tavern. She looks at him with lilac eyes lined with kohl, her dark eyeshadow making the lilac look even brighter.

“You’re Geralt?” she asks coldly when they approach.

Geralt nods and answers. “I am.”

“The elf said you’re partied.” She waves an elegant hand toward Jaskier. “Is that true?”

Geralt takes a deep breath. “Regretfully.”

 _“Hey!”_ Jaskier calls, incredibly offended. “I’m _right here!”_

“Yes, _regretfully,”_ Geralt counters with a glare at the bard.

Jaskier pouts.

“Good,” the woman says.

She swiftly grabs both Geralt and Jaskier by the arm; there comes loud _snap,_ then everything is spinning and turning and Geralt’s floating, and with another _snap,_ they’re standing in the middle of a _royal court._

Geralt’s stomach churns; he gasps for air. _Holy shit._ Okay, well, that was not as bad the teleportation crystals but damn if it didn’t still _suck._

“Your Majesty. _Father,”_ the woman says as she lets go of him and Jaskier, curtsying to the king on his throne. “I’ve brought you Geralt, the adventurer! I know you said to send a messenger, but I _knew_ I could do this, father! I’m sorry I went against your orders, I just wanted to _show you_ I could do it, father, for you!”

Geralt’s stomach settles slowly, enough so that he can wrench open his eyes and have a proper look around without the room spinning.

It is indeed a royal court, with the whole lot of them assembled before the king, looking on with curious eyes and fake smiles. The king himself is a fat little man, his crown hardly doing a thing to hide the fact that he’s balding. Honestly, Geralt would liken him more to a pig farmer than a king, if it weren’t for his ostentatious clothing.

“So you did, Yennefer,” he says, and his voice alone makes even those few words sound _mean._ “Get out of the way.”

The woman, Yennefer, curtsies quickly again then moves away with swift steps. She hurries up to stand to the king’s left.

“So. Geralt,” the king says.

 _“And Jaskier!”_ the bard chimes in, completely incapable of reading the room.

“Shut up, _elf,”_ the monarch spits rather nastily.

Jaskier rears back, shocked. He runs his hands quickly through his hair. Geralt can see it now falls to hide the man’s pointed ears.

Geralt does _not_ take kindly to this. Fool or not, they’re partied now, and that means he’s _Geralt’s_ fool, and even if he wasn’t, this angry little man could stand to show some common courtesy.

He holds his tongue, though. _For now._

“Geralt,” the king says again. “Rumor has it you cleared the Circle.”

The Circle? Is that what they’re calling the first dungeon? Well, he can’t say it’s not an appropriate name.

“I did,” he replies.

“Rumor also has it that the treasure there, contained several relics belonging to the Aedirn royal court.”

Of course that’s what this is about. What else would it be?

“There may have been some items of that nature,” he says, just a little bit exasperated.

 _“Tell me_ what these items are,” the king demands. Uch, just his _voice_ makes Geralt feel uncomfortable. “Many things have been stolen from this honorable house through the years.”

Geralt opens his inventory and scrolls down to where he’s organized all the artifacts.

He reads out the list of items supposedly belonging to Aedirn. The court fusses.

“Aerdirn will be most grateful to you if you were to return these treasures to her,” the king says. “Any reward you wish, it would be yours. Might I perhaps suggest an alliance with Aedirn, through your marriage to my lovely daughter, Yennefer?”

At that, Princess Yennefer looks momentarily appalled, quickly schooling her face back into indifference. Still, Geralt can somehow see the pain on her, saddened at the thought of being used as a bargaining chip to get back some useless _relics._

Geralt hums. “I could be persuaded, your Majesty.”

“Tell me your prize, adventurer.”

“Jaskier here,” Geralt says, clapping the elf on the back. “-happens to be a member of my party. To me, that means he is also a friend, even if I do sometimes find him annoying as hell. Which means that _your_ slight against him, is also a slight against _me._ If you wish to receive _my_ generosity, you must first receive _his_ mercy.”

Jaskier stares at Geralt. So does everyone else.

“I suggest you get on your knees, kiss his boots, and _beg_ for forgiveness.”

The court whispers and hums, everyone is a buzz with _shock_ at his insolence.

 _“My_ slight? _How_ could _I_ slight that _thing?!”_ the king shouts, outraged by the mere suggestion.

“You were _rude,”_ Geralt says, smirking. “You said _elf,_ as though it was something he should be ashamed of. In reality, _you_ are the one who should be ashamed. Beg forgiveness. _Maybe_ I’ll give you your treasures. You can keep the princess, though. I prefer penis.”

Beside him, Jaskier breaks into giggles. “I know you do, darling!”

 _“Shut up._ So? What will it be, your Majesty? Are you _really_ gonna let me walk outta here with all of Aedirn’s precious treasures?” Geralt waits.

The king stews. His fists clench so tightly his knuckles turn white. Geralt can almost _hear_ the grinding of his teeth.

“Hm. Alright, then. C’mon, Jaskier,” he says, clapping the elf lightly on the back again. “We’re leaving.”

Jaskier follows as Geralt makes to leave.

 _“Yennefer!”_ the king shouts, pointing down at them.

 _“Quen!”_ Geralt responds, drawing his steel sword as the shield materializes.

But the princess does not move.

“Yennefer! Stop them!” the king howls. “End them! Take back what’s mine!”

Still, she stands frozen.

“You were going to give me away? For some shiny rocks and a bloody _sword?”_ she hisses, then. “Throw me at him, in hopes you’d get something _more valuable_ in return?”

The king growls. He shoots out of his seat at the throne. He takes a handful of the princess’ long black hair in hand, jerking her to him by it.

“You listen here, you _mongrel bitch,”_ he spits. “I am benevolent enough to have let you _live._ Now earn your place and _stop them!”_

The princess grits her teeth. _“Fine,”_ she bites.

So the king releases her, all but _throwing_ her away from him, as though he can’t _stand_ to have her so close.

The princess stalks down the steps from the small platform upon which the king’s throne is placed. Geralt steadies his resolve for the coming fight. Jaskier hides himself behind Geralt.

She approaches them slowly. Geralt blinks rapidly as he feels a _pressure_ in his head. A _push,_ like someone soliciting entrance by choosing to alert him to their presence rather than _forcing_ their way in.

 _“Lower that shield,”_ the princess whispers, her voice echoing inside Geralt’s skull. _“Trust me once, that is all I ask. One moment of your trust, is all I want.”_

He hesitates. Though, he can see no ill-will in the princess’ face.

 _“Diamond Body,”_ he casts, his skin instantly growing harder than stone.

That should protect him just as well as _Quen_ would, he thinks, so he lets the shield shatter and fall away.

The princess breaks into a run.

Geralt’s hands clench around his sword.

 _Snap,_ of a portal ripping open a tear in the fabric of the world.

Oh. He sees where this is heading.

Geralt lowers his sword quickly; he reaches behind him and grabs a tight hold of Jaskier’s arm.

The princess collides with them with quite some force. Together, they fall and the portal catches them, whisking them away.

It feels like an eternity before they hit the ground. When they do, though, they don’t waste a moment. Quickly, they’re on their feet again.

They’re in a field, with what looks like wheat growing around them, and in the distance, he sees a massive walled city and a castle within it. Was that the court they were in? If it was, they’re not as far away as Geralt would like but it should be enough for a decent head-start. Plus, suppose they’ve got Yennefer’s portals to aid in the escape, even if Geralt feels a bit sick from them.

Geralt almost swallows his tongue when Jaskier suddenly throws himself at him in a tight hug.

“You called me _friend!_ I’m your _friend!”_ he shouts, almost deafening Geralt. “I’m your bestest friend in all the world! _Oh,_ I simply _must_ write a song about the occasion!”

Geralt groans and shoves him away. The bard sits himself down in the wheat, whipping out his notebook from his bag to start writing.

“Princess,” Geralt says.

The woman frowns at him, brushing the dirt and chaff from her long black dress. “What?”

“Why did you do that?”

The princess sighs. “I knew my father was a cunt, of course, but he reached new heights of cuntiness right before my very own eyes,” she bites, arms crossing tightly around herself. “-and I very swiftly decided I would no long be his _mongrel bastard child,_ and instead be my own woman. Do you have a problem with that?” she challenges.

Geralt shrugs. “Not really. As long as you go get my horse from Dillingen, I don’t give a shit what you do.”

The princess lets out an annoyed sigh, rolling her eyes. “If I get you your horse, you let me join your party. Until I figure out my next step, at least.”

Hm. He can’t say he’s very fond of the woman, but then again, he’s not very fond of Jaskier either, and he still lets that fool stay on his party; and well, it could be good to have at least _one_ other competent person on his team. Hm... The party screen did have a note saying that basically there’s no ‘friendly fire’, so at least while she’s on his party, she can’t actually hurt him. That could be good.

“Agreed.”

Geralt offers his hand. The princess shakes it.

“And don’t call me _princess._ My name is _Yennefer._ Start walking that way,” she says then, pointing away from the city and the castle. “There’s a village not far from here. I’ll meet you there with the horse.”

**_**YENNEFER THE WITCH** _ ** ****HAS JOINED YOUR PARTY!** **

****… PLEASE CHECK THE** ** **_**PARTY** _ ** ****TAB TO SEE YOUR PARTY** **

With another _snap_ of a portal, she disappears. Geralt grabs Jaskier and starts walking.

While he does, he opens the Party tab to check on his new member.

****YENNEFER LV.42** **

****HP: 1384/1384** **

****MP: 1922/1922** **

****RACE: HUMAN, QUARTER-ELF** **

****CLASS: PRINCESS (ROYALTY), WITCH, SORCERESS** **

****WEAPON: DAGGER** **

****ARMOR:** **

Hm. Surprising to see her level is lower than Jaskier’s. Well, maybe not, considering Jaskier _is_ a thousand years old.

It takes them about a half-hour to reach the village Yennefer pointed them to, and the witch already awaits them, standing as far away from Roach as possible while still holding her by the reins. Since they can’t exactly pile three people on poor Roach’s back, Geralt pays an _exorbitant_ amount of gold to buy a rickety old wagon from one of the farmers, which they then hitch to the horse. With Jaskier and Yennefer in the back, they head east.

Geralt _would_ like to look around Aedirn for a bit while they’re here, _but_ maybe it’s best to get out while they still can. They’ll make their way back there once things have settled down somewhat.

He studies his _Map_ tab. After looking at it on paper, it’s also saved there, which is _great._ Geralt _sucks_ at reading paper maps but if it’s on a screen, he’s golden.

Dol Blathanna first, then they can move north from there and get to Kaer Morhen so Geralt can finish those two quests, then back west.

Maybe whoever controls Dol Blathanna won’t be a _dick_ and Geralt can get at least _a few_ pieces of junk out of inventory. Well. Maybe he’s setting himself up for disappointment with that, but fingers crossed.

They travel for only a short distance before making camp. It was already getting dark by the time he and Jaskier got to Dillingen, then there was Yennefer’s whole mess on top of that. By now, the sun has already set. They’re better off moving during daylight, Geralt knows that.

Geralt is fully prepared to crowd into the back of the wagon with Jaskier and Yennefer to sleep, but the witch offers them an unexpected surprise. She casts a spell, and suddenly a small white tent appears before them. While Jaskier complains that that’s _way_ too small to house all of them, Geralt takes up Yennefer’s offer and goes inside. And as one would expect from a magic tent, it’s bigger on the inside. While it’s nothing too elaborate, it _is_ large enough to fit three single beds and still leave some room to walk around.

Geralt wastes no time in kicking off his boots, unequpping his armor and weapons, and falling face first into the closest of the beds.


	7. Chapter 7

“The _bard!_ The bloody _bard_ is a higher level than _me!_ Seriously?! _Me!_ I’m a fucking sorceress! He’s a _bard!_ How?! _How?!”_

Jaskier chuckles, the strums of his lute chorusing with him. “I’m a thousand years old, little witch,” he hums. “Give it a few centuries, and I’m sure you’ll catch up!”

“And _you!_ A hundred and eighty-five! How’s that even possible?! _No one_ is that high of a level!” She really seems to be working herself up into quite a state over this.

Geralt shrugs. “I spoke friend, is all.”

“I hate you,” she says, though with more venom than bite.

“It’s mutual,” Geralt replies evenly.

Geralt pulls on Roach’s reins. She whinnies in response as she slows to a halt, stomping her hooves and huffing.

“What’s that?” Geralt asks, pointing.

A short distance ahead of them, some meters perhaps, there is a line drawn on the ground. It stretches as far as the eye can see in either direction, crossing the muddy road they’re following. It’s made of mushrooms, which is what makes it so odd. Little brown mushrooms, growing in a perfect, uniform line.

Jaskier leans on Geralt’s shoulder from the wagon, peeking his head out. “Oh, that? Don’t worry about that. It’s just the border of Dol Blathanna. Ancient magic, cast by some king or other, ages ago. Rain or shine, those little bastards always grow. Cross them, and you’re in elven country,” he explains off-hand, then sits back.

A moment passes.

_“Wait!”_

He throws himself onto Geralt again with enough force to tumble out of the wagon’s back, onto the driver’s bench. He does it quite inelegantly, though manages somehow to not fall on his ass into the road.

 _“Dol Blathanna?!_ Why’re we going to Dol Blathanna?! I didn’t agree to this! No one said we were going there!” He’s talking so fast his words almost run together.

“I did say so,” Geralt hums. “You’d know that, _if_ you listened. _But_ you were too busy pouting about Yennefer joining.”

“I was _not_ pouting!” Jaskier argues.

“Yeah, you were, and we’re _going_ to Dol Blathanna whether you like it or not,” Geralt tells him, twitching the reins to start Roach moving again. “Shouldn’t you be happy? You get to visit home, don’t you?”

“But I don’t _want_ to visit home!” Jaskier whines, hanging off Geralt’s shoulder. “Home _sucks!_ Home is the _worst!_ Why do you think I left?! Trust me, you really shouldn’t bother with it. It’s positively _dull!”_

“Feel free to wait here, ‘cause I’m going,” Geralt hums as they get closer and closer to the border.

That shuts Jaskier up, and he climbs into the back of the wagon again to continue his pouting undisturbed.

They cross the line of mushrooms, and enter into the elven lands of Dol Blathanna and in the direction the capital.

Some distance past the border, they also enter a small wooded area, which the road slithers through. As soon as they do, Geralt can feel himself being _watched._

It comes as no surprise, though. Most likely, it’s some form of border watch. Considering how hostile the Aedirnian king was to one and a quarters worth of elf, he probably isn’t a big fan of having a whole country of them as neighbors. The elves probably stay on high alert at all times, ready to guard themselves from the ire of Aedirn.

What _does_ come as a surprise, though, is the arrow that suddenly whizzes through the air to implant itself firmly in the wood of the driver’s bench, about one inch away from Geralt’s left thigh.

Roach screams, only stayed from running amok by Geralt pulling her back with the reins, making her pace anxiously in place instead, as elves seem to fall out of the trees to surround them. Each and every one of them is armed with a bow, an arrow nocked and drawn.

“State your business, human!” one demands, seemingly the commander.

He breaks through the line to stand beside where Geralt sits, glaring up at him with one sharp eye. Geralt does not let himself appear shaken.

He removes the guild card from his pocket, offering it to the elf. “I’m Geralt, from the adventurer’s guild. I’m here on a quest. I’ll need to see whoever rules the country.”

The elf snatches the card from his hand and inspects it quickly. “What sort of quest? You really think you’ll so easily be allowed an audience with his Majesty, King Filavandrel?” he says, tossing the card back at Geralt, which lands in his lap.

“I have-” Geralt starts.

_“Iorveth.”_

Geralt looks up at the sound of Jaskier’s voice. The bard climbs out of the back of the wagon onto the driver’s bench more elegantly this time, not at all tripping over himself like on his last attempt. He stands on the bench, holding his head higher than ever before (which seems like it should be some sort of achievement, considering the size of his ego).

“Iorveth. Call off your men,” the bard orders curtly. “Or would you like to be executed for threatening the Crown Prince?”

 _Crown Prince? Excuse me?_ Who here is a fucking Crown Prince? They have a runaway princess, but that’s about it. Where did they pick up a prince? Is someone hiding in the wagon, without Geralt knowing?

 _“J-Jaskier?”_ the elven commander stutters, obviously caught off guard. “I mean! _Your Highness!_ Wh-… How? What? Where have you been?!”

Jaskier’s hard front breaks. A riotous laughter spills out of him. He leaps off the wagon at the soldier, enveloping him in a tight hug.

 _“Iorveth! Mell eirien!”_ he cries as he hugs the commander, who still looks quite _shaken_ despite how he hugs Jaskier back.

Mell eirien? _Eirien,_ that means daisy, like the flower. And _mell…_ That’s _dear,_ right? Dear daisy? Why the hell is Jaskier calling this guy _dear daisy,_ and _why the hell did this guy call Jaskier a prince?_

Geralt has _many_ questions.

“Iorveth, _oh, Iorveth,_ how I’ve missed you, dear cousin! Look at you, you’re all skin and bones!” Jaskier says as he takes the other man’s face in his hands, inspecting it. “Are you not eating? Why are you not eating? Filavandrel will certainly hear about this!” Jaskier babbles, looking over his cousin as he drags the poor man to dance in circles with him. “Come! Come ride in the wagon! We’ll go straight to the palace! I’ll bet Palisander will lose his mind when he sees me!”

And that’s how they end up with the commander joining them for the road, and a military escort leading the way.

They’re lead through a city which looks like it was modeled after Rivendell, from Jackson’s movies. Everything feels so light and open, like there are no hard edges to anything in this place; only an ancient elegance, and a simplistic approach to the long lives lived here.

The palace itself is carved directly out of the mountain, but even here, the cold, hard stone seems warm and soft with vibrant life.

They stop in the courtyard laid out before the foot of the palace. There, they disembark the wagon and Roach is lead away to be stabled, though she does try to nip at the elves who steal her from her master. They wait for a short while; the whole time, Jaskier clings to Iorveth, hanging off his arm.

Okay, Geralt’s guessing the king is the guy wearing a crown and riding in on a fucking _moose._

He’s dressed in a long silver robe, draping down along the moose’s side as it lumbers forth. His crown is brilliant silver, glittering chains and stones hanging from it as if to decorate the elf’s snow white hair. The moose itself is crowned too; not only with massive antlers, but in flowers too, all braided and linked to hang from said antlers in an elegant fashion, making them drip with soft, light colors.

The massive beast walks straight up to where Geralt and company wait, and where droves of citizens have gathered by then too. The king, sitting side-saddle, easily slides down from his mount’s back, landing soundlessly on the paved ground underfoot. Then, the moose shuffles on, the crowd parting for it as it leaves, until it disappears from sight.

Geralt decides to attempt to keep things civil, before whatever mess Jaskier’s dragging with him puts a spanner in the works. He takes a few steps forward to meet the king, and bows to him briefly.

“Suilad, i melaith lîn,” he begins, hoping to not appear rude by speaking a human language with the elven king. “Filavandrel, Aran Dol Blathanna. Êl síla erin lû e-govaded ‘wîn. Geralt, i eneth nín. Glass nín le cened.”

But when he looks up, the king simply stares at him. He looks almost… _confused?_ Wait, did Geralt say something wrong? He’s pretty sure he didn’t, but his Sindarin is weak compared to his Quenya, so he honestly can’t say for sure. Or maybe there _are_ differences between the languages that Geralt just _can’t_ know, and that lead to Filavandrel misunderstanding him in some way?

 _Fuck,_ maybe _Geralt’s_ the one who messed this one up, not Jaskier.

The man clears his throat awkwardly. “Di- Did I say something rude, your Majesty?” he asks, and is quite honest with the question. “I really didn’t intend to, if I did. My mistake, of course, if I spoke rudely.”

At that, the king smiles and shakes his head. “No. No, not at all. I-… I simply did not expect to hear the Old Tongue, from a young human such as yourself.”

“The-… The Old Tongue?”

“Yes. The Old Tongue,” the king says as though this is common knowledge. “We haven’t spoken pure Sindarin in some eight hundred years, I believe.”

_“Oh.”_

“Never mind it, dear guest,” Filavandrel insists. “If you did not know, you simply did not know. I cannot fault you for this. But it is no matter. What I do believe _is_ indeed a great matter, is my elder brother.”

Elder brother? What?

Filavandrel side-steps around Geralt, over to where Jaskier still hangs off of Iorveth.

 _“Rácandil,”_ he says, _sharply._ “Brother. Welcome home. Come. Let’s speak in private.”

To be honest, it’s pretty amusing to watch the king take Jaskier by the scruff and drag him away towards the steps leading up to the palace. Without much else to do, Geralt and Yennefer follow, and as does Iorveth.


	8. Chapter 8

“Seven hundred years, Rácandil! You have been _gone_ for seven hundred years! Do you realize how _worried_ I have been all these years?! Every single day, fearing a messenger will come bringing news of your death! _For seven hundred years,_ Rácandil!”

Filavandrel paces around the sitting room as he shouts. At least Jaskier has the decency to look _somewhat_ apologetic.

“Why does he keep calling him Rácandil?” Geralt leans in to whisper, to Iorveth who stands beside him.

Iorveth leans in too. “It’s his name. _Jaskier_ was a nickname we made up when we were kids. I can’t believe he’s been going by it, and for so long too,” he explains in a whisper.

“Hm.”

“And the night before your coronation too! You disappear! _The night before the coronation!_ And suddenly, _I_ have to step up and take the crown, because father was gone and mother was ill, and the people _need_ _ed_ us! And _you_ ran away! You ran away from the crown, from your responsibilities, _from your family!_ To do what? Write your songs and your poetry?”

Filavandrel stops, then, and lets out a soft breath. He looks to his brother.

“Rácandil, you know I love all of your work, and I truly do support you and your art. I do,” he promises, his tone longer angry but instead simply _exhausted._ “You know that. But… I simply cannot accept that you placed yourself, above our people.”

Jaskier nods slowly. He’s smiling, though somehow, he still looks sad. “Filavandrel,” he says.

He gestures to the remaining seat on the small couch he has placed himself on. Though hesitating at first, the king comes over to join him. Jaskier rests his hand on Filavandrel’s.

“I didn’t put myself before the people,” Jaskier says. “I left _for_ the people. I knew it ever since I was little, that I was no king. I just…was not, _am not,_ fit to be a king. I’m…too reckless, too thoughtless, too wasteful, _too lazy!_ But you, dear brother, were _always_ so well suited to lead. The people loved you then, and they love you now. But me? I was the first son of a king, born just after the ravages of war. I was _spoiled!_ I was an absolute _shit!_ With me as king, our people and our country would’ve been _doomed!_ But now, we’re all but in a _golden age!_ Because of _you!”_ Jaskier smiles, proud of his baby brother’s hard work.

“You didn’t leave a note,” Filavandrel accuses. “You didn’t write home. Even if I accept all your reasons for leaving, how am I supposed to accept _that?_ How am I supposed to accept the fact that our mother passed away, not knowing where you were? If you were safe or not, if you were even _alive!”_

He pauses, reeling in his upset and his hurt. When he speaks again, he sounds so incredibly _sad._ “She was… I’m not sure if it was the illness that took her, or the broken heart you gave her.”

Jaskier smiles again; he shakes his head, and pets Filavandrel’s hand. “She knew. I told her before I left.”

_“What?!”_

“I told her about my concerns and…she was the one who convinced me to leave. She told me she always knew I would never be king,” he admits with both a gentle smile and a gentle tone. Father did too. She said the Gods whispered to her when she gave birth to me, and told me they said I was not king, but the one who _lifts up_ the king.”

Filavandrel sits frozen for a moment. It takes him a moment to process what his brother has told him. “What does… What did she mean?”

Jaskier smiles, but shrugs. “I don’t know. She told me to go, and not look back. She knew it would upset you but she also knew that if I tried to speak to you or write to you before leaving, I’d change my mind. I’d stay. Leaving was already hard enough and she wouldn’t allow it,” he explains. “She said my place was somewhere out there in the world. Not here, in Dol Blathanna.”

“But after. In all these years, you could’ve written,” the king pleads. “Even just _one_ letter, just to set me at ease. To calm my worries. Did I not deserve at least that?”

“You did. You do. I was wrong not to write. But…every time I tried, my heart ached so deeply I thought I would die,” the bard admits, his eyes and his voice wet with unshed tears and regret. “No words would come, no matter how long I sat with my quill and parchment. I’m sorry, dear brother. I hope you at least do not hate me. Forgive me or not, I don’t mind. But I couldn’t live, knowing my dear baby brother hated me.”

Filavandrel inhales a very long, deep breath. Geralt can see how he squeezes Jaskier’s hand.

“Forgive you… I don’t know how long it will take me to do that. But hate you? _That,_ I’m certain I could never do.”

The sentiment has Jaskier outright sobbing within three seconds, wrapping himself around his brother in a tight hug.

Geralt feels _so awkward_ having watched all that. That was, like... An _intimate family moment,_ and the three of them are, just fucking watching it play out like it’s actually any of their business. Well. Maybe it’s _sort of_ Iorveth’s business, since Jaskier said they’re cousins, but _still._ Geralt would like to sink into the earth a disappear, thank you.

“Geralt, was it?”

He looks up. Filavandrel looks quite composed, even with one arm around his sobbing brother.

“Ye- Yes, your Majesty,” Geralt replies, _awkwardly._

“I’ve heard the rumors you carry many treasures with you,” Filavandrel continues. “I assume by your coming here, that you also carry something of elven origin?”

Geralt nods. “Yes, your Majesty. The Leafsplitter, as well as some assorted gems and jewelries. I also have some books I’d love some help in translating, if that’s possible.”

“I can sadly make no promises about your books. Our knowledge of the Old Tongue and the Origin Words has diminished greatly,” the king explains. “But in return for the treasures you carry, I can give you my word I will ask our scholars to do their very best. I apologize that I cannot offer more than that.”

Geralt shakes his head. “Not at all, your Majesty. It’s like you said. If you don’t know, you simply don’t know. I’m grateful enough as it is, even if all you can promise is an attempt. Attempting and failing, is better than not attempting at all. My father always told me so, at least.”

“Your father sounds like he was a wise man, Geralt. Iorveth, dear cousin, please receive the treasures from Geralt and take them to the vault, and please have someone send word to the Great Library.”

Library?

Geralt will certainly need to ask about that later.

He hands over the items to Iorveth, glad to free up some space in his pack, then sits with Yennefer on one of the couches, upon Filavandrel’s request.

By then, Jaskier’s sobbing has thankfully subsided somewhat and he only snivels and dried lone tears from his red-rimmed eyes.

“Now, for another important matter, brother,” the king changes topic, smiling softly now. “What would you like to have served at the banquet after the ceremony?”

Jaskier huffs into a tissue he produces out of _somewhere._ “Ceremony? What ceremony?”

“The wedding, of course!”

Jaskier makes a confused noise. Geralt chokes on air. Yennefer snorts in attempt to keep from laughing.

“Wedding? What wedding? Who’s getting married?” the prince-turned-bard questions rapidly.

“You are,” Filavandrel says, as though this was obvious. “To Geralt.”

Yennefer can no longer keep it in; she breaks out laughing so hard there are tears in her eyes.

Geralt freezes. Jaskier stares.

“Excuse me?” Jaskier says, bewildered.

“My eyes in the Aedirn court tell me it would appear as though you have lain with him, with Geralt,” Filavandrel explains. “While no longer a custom most commoners adhere to, for us royals it remains a fact that intercourse is equal to a marriage. We must simply hold the ceremony to make it official, of course.”

 _“Excuse me!”_ Geralt interrupts. “I assure you, I have not _lain with_ him! Ever!”

Jaskier sniffles, patting at his eyes with the tissue. “Oh, come on, darling, don’t be so cold.”

 _“Shut up._ We have _never_ lain together, your Majesty, I swear on my life,” the human insists. “He’s just a moron who doesn’t know when to shut his damn mouth, and I’m _not_ marrying him.”

“Oh, dear,” Filavandrel hums. “I suppose we’ll need some time to work out the details.”

*

Geralt feels like he has died (again) and gone to heaven, when he’s let loose in the Great Library.

There must be thousands upon thousands of books collected here, and Geralt wishes so dearly he could read every single one.

Sadly, the scholars who care for the library immediately push him into the massive section reserved for books written in Quenya. _Uch,_ Geralt regrets ever telling Jaskier, because _he knows_ Jaskier has a hard time keeping his mouth _shut,_ so _of course_ word would spread in a flash.

He does look forward to reading all of these but being _told_ to do it is much less fun. He envies Yennefer, who left with a grin and a portal, saying she’d be drinking her way through Touissant while they do ‘whatever’ over here.

Geralt takes up residence in a very comfortable chair and gets started.

*

“Was he telling the truth?”

Jaskier hums, distracted. “Who? About what?”

He stops and leans over the flowers growing along the path they walk down, taking in the soft scent. This section of the garden is at the height of its bloom. Every plant was chosen to match each other’s season, as were the ones in the other section, ensuring that no matter the time of years, one section is in bloom and ready to be savored. Jaskier can hardly believe they’ve managed to maintain it for this long. It hardly looks any different from last he was here, some seven centuries ago.

“Geralt, of course, when he said you had not lain together,” Filavandrel clarifies.

Finished enjoying this particular bloom, they continue to walk on at a leisurely pace. It feels strange to wear ‘royal clothes’ again, Jaskier thinks. The fabrics are of elven make, so of course they’re light and airy and weight next to nothing, and yet, amount of it all adds up in the end. The long flowing robe, and the draping sleeves, and the tunic underneath, and the shirt under that, and the undershirt under that. It feels like he’s buried in fabric.

“Perhaps he did, perhaps he didn’t,” Jaskier answers absently.

“I need an answer, Jaskier,” Filavandrel insists.

“Palisander, please,” Jaskier says. If Filavandrel is using Jaskier’s nickname, then Jaskier will also use Filavandrel’s. “Must we delve so deeply into my private affairs?”

“Runaway or not, you are, by blood, a prince of the elven royal family. _Crown prince,_ even, since I have yet to produce children. If you have lain with him, you _must_ marry him.” Filavandrel looks at him seriously, as though to communicate the severity of his words. “If the people were to find out, I cannot promise what the response will be. They may not stand on tradition, but they expect _us_ to.”

The prince sighs, while the king hums. “I’ll let you in on a secret, Palisander. I’m a whore. I’ve lain with many people through the years. Humans, elves, dwarves. Even, on one memorable occasion, a Nilfgaardian orc. Shall I round them up and marry them all as well?”

At that, it is the king’s turn to sigh. “Perhaps you are correct in that this tradition is outdated, I certainly think so myself, but it is still a tradition we are bound to. And I know you will not like me saying so, but marrying Geralt would benefit the kingdom too. He’s powerful, that much is obvious. Having him as an ally, sworn by marriage, would be beneficial.”

“If I were to marry, I wouldn’t do it solely for the benefit of the kingdom.”

“I know. Will you just tell me what your relationship is? Whether it’s romantic or not?”

Jaskier stops to sample the scent of another flower, just before they come to the pavilion in the middle of this garden section. They sit down on the ornate wooden bench together.

“To be honest, it’s hardly been a week since we met,” Jaskier admits. “I saw him while I was playing in the Cintran court. He told the queen to go do one, and I was in love before I knew it.”

“Truly?”

“Yes. Now, I’ve been in love many times. I fall in love a hundred times a day. It’s simply a part of me, I suppose, to share my love so freely. But…” Jaskier pauses, hesitating as he searches for the right words to explain. “This time, it felt different. I knew I couldn’t let him slip away. So I followed him. Badgered my way onto his party. Hung off his coattails. I’m not sure why. But there’s this feeling somewhere inside me. Like something telling that I _have to_ be with him. I _have to_ follow him. Whether as a friend, as a lover, as a brother-in-arms, it doesn’t matter. I just know I need to be there.”

Filavandrel takes a deep breath. It’s quiet, then. The heavy words hang in the air.

“Does he know you feel this way?” the king asks as the breeze sweeps briefly through the pavilion.

“No. To him, I’m sure I’m nothing more than an annoying bard he can’t wait to get rid of. I don’t know… Maybe I should tell him. Explain. I don’t know what I’d do if he _did_ kick me off the party. Left me behind. Went on without me.”

“Abdicate,” Filavandrel suggests. “You pushed me onto the throne, but you never gave up your claim on it. Even now, with one word from you, I would be forced to surrender the crown. Abdicate your place in the line of succession. Formally, this time. You can leave behind all the worries of being royalty, and move on with your life however you please. You’ll retain the title of prince, thanks to our bloodline, but you’ll never have to worry about taking the throne, or producing heirs, or think about politics. You can follow Geralt to your heart’s content. I _would_ like it if you came home to visit more frequently than every seventh century, though.”

Jaskier smiles at the jab, flattening out the long robe over his lap. “Perhaps I should abdicate. But I should speak to Geralt first. If… If he doesn’t want me on the party, _truly_ doesn’t want me with him, then I won’t get in his way. I think feeling like I’m in his way would feel worse than getting kicked off.”

“Then go. Speak to him. He’s still in the library, I believe.”

*

“And that one, the top one, what was that again?”

“To walk,” Geralt says, pointing to the words on the blackboard. “This suffix makes it future tense.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” the woman says, and makes a note of this in her ledger. “And the one below it, you said this was past tense?”

“Yeah, exactly.”

While Geralt _does_ want to read all the books in the library, it would take a long time to both translate and-or transcribe each book; he already had this discussion once with Jaskier. Geralt figured it would be easier to teach the librarians Quenya, so they can continue their studies for as long as they like.

“Alright. Um. Let’s break for some lunch, and continue with verb conjugations after?” he suggests to the librarians sitting gathered before him like a class of students.

With that, his students scatter.

Geralt stays behind for a while. He takes a few deep breaths and stretches a few times.

Hm. It’s weird, but… Teaching like this. It reminds him of his old life. It was his dad that taught him Quenya. Sindarin, Tengwar, Khuzdul, and runes too. They read Lord of the Rings together all the time, when Geralt was little, and when he got older, they played the video games and the table-top role playing games too. He was never sure why his dad loved that world so very much, but it was something they had _together,_ and that’s what Geralt liked most about it. It was something he shared with his mom and dad. Something they did together all the time, something they bonded over ever since he was little.

He hasn’t thought much about his parents since coming here. Or the life he left behind as a whole, either, really.

Now that he _does_ think about it, he misses it a lot. He misses his mom and dad. He misses his life, even if it wasn’t perfect. But at the same time, he’s not _sad_ it’s over, which is perhaps the most surprising thing. It feels like…all that, was just the first step of his life. And this, _this world,_ this life, is the next step. It’s not two separate lives, but one. Connected across worlds, with death as a stepping stone.

He wishes they could have seen this place, though. He’s sure they would have _loved_ it. He hopes him dying didn’t hurt them too badly. But maybe that’s too much to ask for, from parents who lost their child.

“Geralt?”

He wakes from his thoughts, looking to the call of his name.

Jaskier looks odd in those courtly clothes. It’s not at all his style. Geralt prefers him in the gaudy get-ups he usually wears. He looks...happier that way. In the few days they’ve been here now, where Jaskier’s been made to wear those fancy clothes, he’s sure he hasn’t seen the man smile _once._ Not the same smile as before, at least. Not a _real_ smile. Here and now, it’s just some picture-perfect people-pleasing smile, and that’s not right at all. It doesn’t look _right._ Jaskier’s real smile is a lot more...carefree. He always smiles like there’s nothing in the world that could stop him from doing so.

“Jaskier. What is it?”

“I...need to speak to you.”

Geralt shrugs. “Okay. Go on, then.”

“Yes. Of course. Right away. Um. Hm, this is harder to put into words than it was before. Alright. Here goes. Okay.”

He pauses there, and takes a deep breath as though to collect his thoughts and find the words he wants.

“I know you think I’m...annoying. And irritating. And I’m sorry about that. But...I need to be with you.” He hesitates after saying the words, then crosses his arms as he considers. “Wait, no, that doesn’t sound quite right.”

Geralt has no clue what to say or do, but to let Jaskier keep talking.

“Not _be_ with you, in _that way,_ unless that’s what _you_ want, because I _am_ open to that if it’s something you’re interested in too, but... It’s like…” he stops there again, then carries on by swearing, “Fuck. Shit. Okay. Gods, I’m a bloody _poet!_ I’m supposed to be good at _words!_ Shit.”

He stops _again._ He swears to himself a few more times, shifting on his feet, still trying to find the right words to convey what he wants to say.

“When I saw you in Cintra, it was like something inside me just... I _knew_ I had to go with you. I just _knew_ that somehow, in some way, I was supposed to follow you. How or why, I’ve no clue, I just... I could _feel it,_ Geralt. With every fibre of my being, I knew I had to go with you.”

Not what Geralt expected to hear, but okay.

Maybe...Jaskier’s right, though? The god who runs this world, Melitele or whoever else, maybe they ‘programmed’ Jaskier to follow him? Geralt has no clue why they would do that, but honestly, what part of all of _this_ has truly made sense? Gods and goddesses, reincarnation, a world built like a video game using Tolkien’s works as one of its cornerstones? Which of these thing makes any sort of actual _sense?_

Who bloody knows, maybe it’s Jaskier’s destiny to trail after Geralt while he dicks around aimlessly!

“Okay.”

“Okay?” Jaskier repeats in disbelief. “Does...that mean it’s okay? That I...come with you?”

Geralt clears his throat.”"Yeah. Sure. And... You’re not...always annoying,” he squeezes out.

Damn, having honest conversations about feelings and shit is hard no matter what world you’re in, huh?

He pulls out a chair at the table and takes a seat. Jaskier does the same, sitting next to Geralt.

“I’m just...not always great with...touching?” Geralt attempts to explain. “It feels...weird. Sometimes. Most of the time. It’s worse when it’s...unexpected. When I’m not ready.”

Jaskier nods along, listening intently with a starry look in his eyes. “From now on, I won’t touch you without permission, dear heart. I’m sorry I was so brash before. I didn’t consider how you might feel, and that was wrong of me. I’m sorry.”

The human nods awkwardly. “And sometimes-... Um.”

“What is it, dear? If I’ve done anything to bother you or make you uncomfortable, please do tell me. I’ll do my very best to not let it happen again.”

“You can be...loud. It’s okay, most of the time. But when you’re too close, the loudness, it...doesn’t _hurt,_ really. But…”

“It’s unpleasant?” Jaskier suggests.

He nods.

“Thank you for telling me, Geralt. Now that I know these things and how they make you feel, I can avoid doing them. You’re my friend, Geralt. I never want to upset you or make you uncomfortable. And if I do, _tell me._ If you don’t, I can’t... _fix_ it. Okay?”

“Okay. And I know I’m...quiet. And prickly, and kinda dumb sometimes. I’m just not good at...people. Books and writing and facts and information, that’s what I’m good at. People are too...squishy.”

The choice of words breaks a snorting laughter out of the elf.

That’s the right kind of smile for Jaskier to have.


	9. Chapter 9

It’s a damn _month_ before they leave Dol Blathanna, because Quenya cram school took _way_ longer than Geralt expected.

They leave early in the morning with what seems like the whole city having gathered to see them off. Jaskier stands at the back of the wagon as they exit the city-limits, waving and shouting and blowing kisses. Yennefer is still hungover, sleeping under one of the benches in the wagon.

Geralt is _so glad_ to be leaving. The city was great and all, and the people were very kind and welcoming and happy to have them as guests, and it was fun to work in the library even if most of his time was taken up by teaching instead of reading, but it was also…a lot. A little too much, even. He needs a _break,_ and going back out on the road will be _perfect_ for that. It’ll be just the three of them, without anything to really worry about except which road to take. Perfect.

He’s studied the map carefully. If they cross the Pontar river to Ban Gleán, then head to Shaerrawedd, and keep going north until they reach the Gwenllech, they can just follow the river all the way to Kaer Morhen.

Crossing the river is no issue, as Yennefer, though hungover as hell, can easily cast her magic and make a bridge sprout out of the earth. Roots from the trees stretch out from either side of the water, meeting halfway to braid themselves together and create a path for them to use.

Roach hesitates somewhat, but Geralt sets her at ease by walking beside her, leading her from there instead. It seems to make her calm down, knowing she isn’t walking into the unknown on her own.

The roots that made up the bridge untangle themselves once they have crossed. They slither back into the dirt and leave no trace of their bridge.

They reach Ban Gleán before too long. It’s a relatively small city. They stop to pick up some supplies, then move on. A few hours later, they reach Shaerrawedd too. The ruins looks like they may have been something grand to look at once, in their glory days. Geralt’s a little sad he doesn’t get to see it.

“Did you see it? Before it was destroyed?” he asks Jaskier.

“Sadly, no,” he replies. “It was destroyed in the war just before I was born. My father told me it was quite a sight to behold, though.”

“Hm.”

They stop there for a little bit, needing the break. Still, once they’ve had their lunch and stretched their legs for a short while, they load back onto the wagon and keep going.

Geralt hopes to get to Kaer Morhen quickly. It would be good to finish up the quests there, before coming back down to Kaedwen, the country they’re moving through now, to scan for new quests that might lead them out west. He’s still loaded with those quests from the treasures, the elven one is the only one he’s actually finished, as well as that dragon quest and the monster hunting one from Cintra.

Fuck. Geralt always _hated_ having too many active quests at once. It’s too distracting. He prefers to focus on one thing at a time, do it to the best of his ability, then move on to the next thing and focus on that.

He’ll finish the Witcher quests, then try to actually get the treasure quests done, then _finally_ wrap up the monster and dragon quests once they get back to Cintra.

Fingers crossed things go to plan, but when do they ever?

Within the week, they find themselves in a small village at the base of the mountains that home Kaer Morhen. After consulting with some of the villagers, Geralt decides to leave the wagon behind. Apparently, the trails aren’t hospitable enough to let it through. For a decent amount of gold, one of the farmers lets him store the wagon in their barn until they return.

And so, they set out on foot, taking turns on Roach’s back (though she has still not warmed up to Jaskier in the least, she reluctantly lets him on if Geralt makes sure to feed her lots of treats while he’s up there).

 _“Titania’s Blessed Guide,”_ he casts as the trail begins to become harder to discern.

A ball of yellow light appears in the palm of his extended hand, though upon closer inspection, he is shocked to see that it’s actually a small _fairy._ She speaks, though it sounds only like the ringing of little bells, then darts out of Geralt’s hand. She flies ahead of him, finding the path with ease, and Geralt follows quickly.

The keep appears in the distance, though still shrouded by the trees. He can see the walls and the towers reaching up into the sky. If he looks closely, he could swear he sees the figures of people moving around atop the walls.

“I fucking _hate_ the woods!” Yennefer bemoans as they trudge through the mud.

Hm, yes, she _is_ wearing a fancy gown and some kind of heels. Maybe not the best choice for this part of the journey.

“It’s muddy and cold and _smelly,_ and I never thought I’d say it, but I actually fucking _miss home!”_ she complains. “At least _there,_ there’re warm fires and hot tea and nice beds and good food!”

“You should’ve joined us in Dol Blathanna for a while,” Jaskier suggests, walking beside her. “But _no,_ you had to go drink and fuck your way through Touissant.”

 _“I was celebrating,”_ Yennefer counters.

“Celebrating what?” Jaskier asks.

“Leaving that shithole Aedirn!”

“Hm,” Jaskier observes, “that _is_ a good reason to celebrate.”

“Quiet down,” Geralt tells them, leading the way with Roach. “We’re almost there.”

He dismounts the horse as they break the edge of the woods.

The keep stands tall and proud as they approach. The drawbridge is down, with guards clad in black armor. He can see beyond them into the courtyard, where more men in black move around. Most seem occupied with sparring with different sorts of weapons and techniques, while others seem consumed by chores and such.

 _“Halt!”_ one of the guards shouts as the small company come closer. “Who goes there?!”

“Hm, he’s wearing the Witcher blacks, but I’ve never seen him,” the second guard says to the first. “The new recruit maybe?”

“It’s possible. Have someone fetch the Grandmaster,” the first says, leading the second to call another over to relay the order. “And you! What’s your business?”

The question is directed at Geralt and company again, thankfully. “I’m here on a quest. It told me to come to Kaer Morhen.”

“And your companions?”

“Members of my party. Jaskier, and Yennefer. We’re travelling together, for now.”

“Alright, then.” The guard motions them over. “Come inside. You’ll need to see the Grandmaster.”

They cross the drawbridge, where the guard then leads them into the courtyard. Upon their entry, everything seems to stop. All the Witchers halt what they’re doing to instead watch the newly arrived guests. Geralt allows someone to lead Roach to the stables, as a new Witcher arrives in the yard.

He looks older than the others. His face is lined and lightly wrinkled, his hair and moustache gone gray with age, and yet, the look in his eyes says these years only mean _more experience_.

“So this is the boy who summoned us all here, then?” the old Witcher says to the guard who lead them in.

“Seems like it, Grandmaster Vesemir. He’s got the armor, and claims he has the quest too.”

“I see,” the old man, Vesemir, hums. “And your companions, boy? Who might they be?”

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” the witch says coldly. “Sorceress.”

“And I’m Jaskier, the bard!” the elf volunteers..

“You. Bard,” Vesemir says. “You wouldn’t happen to be a prince, eh?”

Jaskier startles. “Oh? I-… Well. Yes, actually. Of Dol Blathanna. Though, I recently abdicated my place in the line of succession, if that’s of any import.”

“Hm. I see. Arvo, take them up to my study. I’ll join you shortly.”

“Yes, Grandmaster,” the guard says.

Geralt and company follow the guard, Arvo, across the yard and into the keep. More Witchers move about inside. Must be quite a number of them here. As Geralt understands it, the class is quite rare, but there are more people with it than he expected.

They’re shown to Vesemir’s study a few floors up and bid to wait there. Yennefer kicks off her mud-caked shoes and sits down by the fireplace, pulling her skirts up a bit and sticking her feet out to soak in the fire’s warmth. Jaskier throws himself dramatically over the small couch placed near the fire as well. Geralt paces around the room.

The desk is neat and organized. The bookshelves behind it are alphabetized and categorized. The air smells somewhat of alcohol, from the bottle left sitting on a small side-table.

Soon enough, the old Witcher joins them, carrying an old book and a small, ornate box. He quickly goes and takes a seat at his desk, where he opens the book and flips to a page somewhere near the middle. When it comes to the box, he is more gentle. He sets it down carefully to the side, out of the way, where there’s the least chance of any stray hands reaching it.

“What is your name?” he asks, looking up at Geralt.

“It’s Geralt,” he says.

“Where did you get that armor?”

“Found it in a dungeon. Swords too. The quest activated when I put it all on.”

“I see.” Vesemir’s face is carefully blank. “May I see your guild card, if you have one?”

Geralt fishes it out of his pocket and hands it over. Vesemir is the first person who doesn’t seem surprised when he sees Geralt’s level. Hm. Does that mean all Witchers have levels that high? Interesting. Vesemir hands the card back.

“You did not plan on becoming a Witcher? It was accidental?”

“Correct.”

“Do you _want_ to be a Witcher?”

That’s an actual question. Geralt shrugs.“Suppose so. Why not?”

“Hm. Sign your name and your moniker here.”

Vesemir slides the books across the desk to Geralt. He also moves over the inkwell and quill that sits on the desk. Geralt inks the quill, then writes his name below the others listed on the page.

“Don’t have a moniker, though.”

Vesemir shrugs, hands clasped and hiding his face, elbows resting on the desk. “Make one up.”

“Why?”

“Tradition. You must have a moniker, so that your story can be passed to those who come after.”

“I’m not good at that stuff.”

“It is how you will be known. To the people, to your brothers, to history,” Vesemir explains. “I am the Old Bear, for example. I was the Swift Cat in my youth. The Mountain’s Hand, the Gray Mane. It’s how we tell ourselves who we are. It is as important as your name itself,” he insists.

“But I’ve not found mine yet,” Geralt argues, starting to feel a little bit annoyed.

 _“Oh,_ will you boring old farts stop it?” Jaskier says, having absolutely _no right_ to call anyone old considering his own age.

He hops to his feet and comes over to the desk, sidling past Geralt and being careful not to touch him. He takes the quill and puts it to the parchment.

“There! Is that good?”

Geralt looks, once Jaskier removes his hand. The White Wolf? Where’d he get that?

“Rácandil means _wolf lover,_ and well, I love _you,_ so that makes you the wolf, doesn’t it? And then there’s the flowing white mane and the alabaster skin, so why not?”

Hm. Not bad, Geralt supposes. It could be worse. Reminds him of a story his dad used to tell him, about old mountain wolves that only came down to save innocent people from danger.

A window appears in Geralt’s HUD.

**_**APPLICATION ACCEPTED** _ **

****

****CLAN AFFILIATION UPDATED:** ** **_**WITCHER** _ **

****CLAN BONUSES AUTOMATICALLY APPLIED** **

****YOU MAY CHOSE** ** **_**ONE** _ ** ****OF THE FOLLOWING PERKS** **

****(SCHOOL PERKS STACK ONTO CLAN BONUSES)** **

Geralt swipes to the next page. It shows him a list of schools named for animals. School of the Cat, School of the Bear, School of the Crane, and so on. He goes down the line, tapping each option and reading the small description of what the perk offers, to allow him to make his choice.

Cat gives heightened agility and dexterity, better sneaking and quieter movements. Bear gives heightened strength, endurance, and durability, stronger unarmed attacks, slight resistance to cold. It goes on from there. None of them really appeal to him. Thanks to his level, all his stats are already pretty damn high, so the slight boosts these perks are going to give won’t make much of a difference, even when stacked on whatever the clan perks might look like.

He goes for the wolf. Jaskier gave him a pretty cool moniker, why not keep playing on that? He selects and confirms it, which closes the window.

“Which school did you choose?” Vesemir inquires.

“Wolf.”

Vesemir takes the book back. He makes a note of Geralt’s choice next to his name, then sets the book aside to let the ink dry. Next, he places the box in front of Geralt. He opens it.

Inside lays a silver chain, with a medallion shaped like the head of a wolf.

“Wear this. It shows that you are one of us.”

Geralt takes the medallion. He hangs the long chain around his neck.

A window pops up again.

****YOU HAVE COMPLETED THE SET** ** **_**THE MOUNTAIN’S FURY!** _ **

The Mountain’s Fury? That must be name of the set, then. But why would the medallion complete it?

He asks Vesemir as much.

The old man hums. He leans back in his seat. He runs his fingers along his moustache.

“What did you say the name of the set was?”

“Mountain’s Fury.”

“So it _is_ you,” Vesemir states, as if it would explain everything.

That confuses Geralt. He looks questioningly to Jaskier, as if he might know, but the elf looks just as confused as Geralt feels.

“What d’you mean?” the bard asks. “He’s what?”

Vesemir stands up from his desk. “Come with me.”

He leaves the study; Geralt and Jaskier follow, and though she complains about it, Yennefer gets up and follows too. He leads them on a winding path through the expansive keep, following this hallway and that hallway, up and down different sets of stairs, until they reach a small chamber. On one wall, there is a large stone tablet with a passage of words carved into it. Across from it, on the opposite wall, hangs what Geralt would assume is a large painting, though it is covered by a black cloth that has been draped over the frame.

Vesemir goes to stand before the tablet.

“Do you know what this is?” he asks.

Geralt joins him. It’s Khuzdul runes, he realizes quickly. Upon translating it in his head, he also realizes it’s the same verse that was carved in the treasure chamber in Owl’s Home.

“I saw it in Owl’s Home,” he relays to the Witcher. “In the treasure room.”

“And you can read it?”

“Yeah. It’s some kinda story. A legend maybe, I dunno, about someone called the Witcher King.”

 _“Oh, the Witcher King!”_ Jaskier hums. “I remember those stories. My father used to tell them to me when I was a child.”

“He is not a story,” Vesemir tells them. “The Witcher King was a great man, who ended the human encroachment on dwarven and elven lands. He drew the lines in the sand that became the borders separating the races. A thousand years have passed, but these borders remain respected and unchanged. Not only that. Humans themselves were close to being crushed by the war. He ended it not only for the benefit of elves and dwarves, but for humans as well. To save them from destroying themselves by stubbornly continuing on in a war they were losing.”

So he was a real guy? Hm. Not strange, though. It’s been a thousand years. That’s more than enough time for truth to turn into stories into legends.

“But the text says he would come back, right?” Geralt says. _“Fallen but not yet lost, will return a Witcher blessed by the goddess,_ if I’m not mistaken.”

“You are correct,” Vesemir says.

He reaches his hand out. He runs his fingers over the runes almost _fondly._

_“The Wolf crowned in white, king among the mountains, fallen but not yet lost, and will return a Witcher blessed by the Goddess, to be the bringer of peace and herald of order. The King of Witchers bears the Mountain’s Fury into battle. With the Black Witch and the Lost Prince, he is the sword and shield of the people.”_

He reads it as reverently as one would read a holy text.

“Previous Grandmasters made certain that their successors knew the truth, and knew how to ascertain who is the new king. So _I_ know how to ascertain such a thing. And so, I have ascertained, Geralt, that _you_ are our Witcher King.”

Wow, this world is really just piling _a lot_ of things on Geralt’s shoulders, isn’t it?

But a king? Really? Geralt’s not a king! Geralt’s just some idiot dicking around in a cool new world! How the hell is he supposed to be a king?

As if seeing his disbelief, Vesemir decides to explain. “Let’s go through the prophecy. A wolf crowned in white. You chose the wolf school, and your hair, _your crown,_ is white. Your friend Jaskier even named you _the White Wolf,_ did he not? Somehow, you have been blessed by a goddess, have you not? I do not know this for a fact, of course, but I trust in the prophecy.”

Fuck. Geralt _has_ been blessed. _Light’s Blessing._ Melitele gave it to him. He was blessed by the goddess. Reluctantly, he nods.

“You wear the Mountain’s Fury,” Vesemir continues. “That armor is the Mountain’s Fury, correct?”

He nods again.

“And at your sides, you have a black witch,” Vesemir goes on, nodding to Yennefer, a witch clad in black. “And a lost prince.” He nods then to Jaskier, who is indeed a prince who was lost to his people. “Tell me. After all this, what makes you doubt that you are our king?”

_Ah, fuck..._

Vesemir looks satisfied. He continues on, “A dwarven stonemason in Mahakam had a vision, eight hundred years ago. The Goddesses sang to him and showed him the king that would come. Word has it, he made two copies. One for the king would come, and one for those who await him. He carried this tablet here from Mahakam on his own. He scaled the mountain with it on his back, and delivered it to the Grandmaster. We have been waiting for a thousand years for our king to return to us. And now you are here."

Vesemir steps away. He crosses the room to the covered painting. He takes the cloth and pulls it away, revealing what’s been hidden.

When Geralt looks at it, he is not certain quite what to feel.

He’s guessing it’s supposed to be a portrait of the former king. But surely, that can’t be true. The man painted there, life-sized, wearing black armor and two swords, a crown placed on his head, with eyes sharp and yellow, it can’t be a king from a thousand years ago. It’s not possible. It simply isn’t.

That man is Korin, and he is Geralt’s own father.

But Korin, he is in Geralt’s old world. He’s alive there, as far as Geralt knows. He’s just _some guy,_ who likes books and video games and can’t cook to save his life and taught Geralt made up languages from old stories and hated it when he fought with Geralt’s mom and would sulk in Geralt’s room when he lost the fights (which he always did) and he can’t drive a car or work a cellphone but he can speak ten languages and whittles figurines out of wood and writes fantasy novels for fun and... He’s Geralt’s dad.

It’s just…Geralt’s dad.

“This is…the king?” he asks, his mouth dry.

Vesemir nods, hands clasped behind his back, as he looks up at the portrait. “I’ve been told he was a great man. A kind man. His name was Korin, the Breath of Peace.”

 _“His name is Korin Holmes,”_ Geralt bites, eyes stinging.

“What do you mean?” Vesemir asks, looking to him then. “He had no such name.”

 _“Yes, he did!_ He did. He did, when he was my dad.”

“Your… _Your_ father?” Vesemir says, brows tightly furrowed in confusion. “You say _this man_ was your father? _Korin,_ was your father?”

Geralt swallows. “He’s… I-… I need a minute.”


	10. Chapter 10

Geralt walks away. He leaves that small room and walks away. He’s not sure quite how, but somehow, he finds his way out to the courtyard and all the Witchers seem to stare at him but the let him pass. He leaves the keep. He crosses the moat and walks into the forest.

When it feels like he can’t walk any further, he stops and sits down in the dirt.

This can’t be real. It can’t. It doesn’t feel possible.

But… _Geralt_ was reincarnated, right? Maybe the same thing happened to Korin, when he died in this world. Maybe Melitele or some other God, maybe they thought he’d done enough good in this world that he deserved a new chance at life; a calm life this time, a peaceful life, where he could fall in love and make a family and be happy.

Put like that, it honestly doesn’t sound too crazy.

Fuck, maybe that’s the reason his dad was always so fucking _weird._ He always talked like _that_ world was the weird place. Cars and phones and TVs and computers never really made sense to him, even if he learned somewhat how to use them. He always treated them like oddities. He took Geralt and Visenna camping and hiking and hunting and fishing more times than Geralt can remember, all through Geralt’s childhood and even when he’d grown up. He talked Geralt into doing karate and judo and jiu-jitsu with him, and loved it when they went riding on Visenna’s family estate and was always so good at handling the horses, and he loved sword fighting (even if it was with wooden swords) and always dragged Geralt into it too, and taught Geralt to shoot a bow because he thought guns were loud and stupid and completely useless.

Maybe he was like that because he was from _this_ world, where riding and camping and fishing and fighting and fencing is all _the norm._ Maybe he did those things with Geralt, because it was the only way he knew how to bond with Geralt, father to son. Maybe _his_ dad taught him all those things, so no matter the world, Korin wanted to teach his son those things too. Who knows? Korin never mentioned any family, living or dead.

Hell, maybe he even knew this was Geralt’s destiny; that he would die and come here, and become the new king, so he taught Geralt all the things he’d need to know.

Maybe he knew, maybe he didn’t; it’s not like Geralt will ever have all the facts.

Possible as this all might be, it doesn’t change that it doesn’t _feel_ real.

Korin was _really_ here? A thousand years ago, he was _here?_ He was a king, who lead armies into war. It’s hard to settle those two images onto the same man; a warrior king who fought for peace and freedom, and the klutz who almost burned the house down a hundred times because he could never remember how a damn stove worked.

Geralt misses home so bad. He wishes he could see his mom and dad just one more time. Just to…tell them he’s okay. That they don’t have to worry. That’s all.

 _“There_ you are, dear heart!”

Geralt looks behind him. Jaskier and Yennefer both stagger through the trees into sight.

“What are you guys doing here?” Geralt asks. “You shouldn’t… You should go back. I wanna be alone, okay?”

“Well, tough shit,” Yennefer says.

She stomps over and plops herself down on the ground next to Geralt. Jaskier does the same, though less angrily, on Geralt’s other side.

“We’re here now, so spit it out,” the witch continues. “What’s going on? You said that guy was your father but he lived a thousand years ago, right?”

“Yen’s right, Geralt,” the bard says. “We followed you all the way here. Don’t we deserve to know what we’re involved in?”

Geralt lets of a soft sigh. “I...died. I died. And...then I woke up and a Goddess who said her name was Melitele told me I could come to this world and have a new life. But...in my old life, my old world, the guy in that painting, he was my father. So far, I’m guessing that maybe he came to my world after he died here. Like...a reward for all the good stuff he did here. That’s why I got a new chance, according to Melitele, ‘cause I died while doing a good deed. While...saving someone else.”

After that, everyone is quiet.

Geralt doesn’t know what more to say, and his companions don’t seem to know how to react to what he’s already said. He figures it’s best to let them process it for a bit. He needed to do that too, at the beginning. It’s a lot to take in. He knows that.

“You mean that…you came from another world?” Jaskier asks softly.

Geralt clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“There are other worlds out there?” Yennefer asks.

He nods. “Melitele said they build new worlds all the time. They…experiment with different building blocks to make new worlds, then set them loose to develop on their own. Mine was built by Melitele, but she said this one was built by someone else. Didn’t tell me their name, though.”

“And…what’s your old world like? Is it much like this one?” the bard questions.

“No. It’s a lot more…developed. Our technology is a lot more advanced. But there’s no magic. And…no dwarves or elves or orcs or monsters. All that, it’s just stories over there.”

“No magic?” Yennefer says, seemingly most upset by this revelation. “But…how? Everything here is built on some form of magic. How does a world work _without_ magic?”

“I don’t know. But it does. We have…carriages that move on their own, without horses. And vehicles made of metal, that can fly, and we use them to travel around the world. And with phones, we can talk to people on the other side of the planet. I guess…technology has replaced magic, in a way?”

“Metal vehicles that can fly… How’s that even possible?” Jaskier wonders aloud, the gears in his head spinning as he tries to work out the mechanics of it.

“And…how did you die?” Yennefer asks.

“The horseless carriages, they’re called _cars._ There’s a bigger kind called trucks. And…I was walking home, and a little girl ran into the street after her ball and there was a truck coming. I can’t remember it very clearly, but Melitele said that I jumped in front of the truck and shielded the girl. She survived, but…I was killed.”

Jaskier smiles. “I knew I followed you for a reason,” he says. “You’re a good person. You gave your life for an innocent child, without hesitation.”

Yennefer hums. “I guess I can see some merit in you, after that,” she agrees.

“Maybe that pull to follow you was Melitele, or this world’s creator,” Jaskier suggests. “Maybe they knew you’d need help to figure out this world, since it’s so different from the one you were used to! So they got me to follow you so you’d have someone to help you!”

 _“Wait,”_ Yennefer says before Geralt can respond. “You felt the pull too?”

Jaskier’s eyes go wide and he gasps. “You did too? But…it didn’t seem like you did!”

She shakes her head. “I ignored it. Or, I tried to. I figured I was just feeling off after taking both of you with me through the portal, but then… My father said those things, and I… I realized I couldn’t stay there any longer, and that feeling came back, so I…decided to trust my gut. Guess it worked out,” Yennefer shrugs.

“I guess if it was in that prophecy, then maybe it _was_ one of the gods. Everything else in it seems accurate, so far,” Geralt hums. “I just can’t believe I’m supposed to be a king. I’ve no idea what a king even _does.”_

Jaskier smiles. “Can I touch you, dear?” he asks.

Geralt nods. It doesn’t feel bad, when he feels Jaskier’s hand on his shoulder.

“Maybe that’s _why_ we’re supposed to follow you, dear. I’m a prince, she’s a princess, we’re basically _experts_ on how to be a king,” the elf says, grinning. “Maybe we’re supposed to help you figure it out.”

Yennefer groans. She shoves Geralt, sending him collapsing onto Jaskier for a moment before they can both sit themselves up properly again.

“Can we stop all the mushy shit and get back inside?” she says. “It’s _really_ fucking cold out here, and I am _not_ enjoying myself.”

Instead of being uncomfortable by all the touching, Geralt can’t help but chuckle. She’s right. He’s a king now. Suppose he’s got no time to sit around and sulk in the woods.

*

Vesemir shows Yennefer and Jaskier to their rooms first. They are not modest things, but not as luxurious as royals such as themselves might be used to. Yennefer seems happy enough with the hot bath waiting for her, the roaring fire, and the massive bed. Jaskier too seems pleased by his room, with a view of the valley and a proper desk to sit at as he composes poetry on said valley’s beauty.

Lastly, the Witcher shows Geralt to his room.

“It’s the king’s quarters, you know,” Vesemir says as they approach. “It’s been empty for years, but undisturbed. If Korin really was your father, perhaps you will find traces of him here.”

The thought is both comforting and terrifying.

His chambers (because there seems to be several rooms connected) are more luxurious than the sparse keep would have you believe possible. The stone floor is covered by carpets and pelts, the air flooded with heat from the enormous fireplace. The four-poster bed seems big enough to fit five people _plus_ Geralt. The walls are covered in fine draperies to hide the cold, hard stone. Vesemir informs him one of the doors leads to Geralt’s private study, the other to his private bath chamber, and the third to his wardrobe. It seems...excessive, but suppose it is what it is.

Two of the side-doors open almost simultaneously. From either door, a Witcher exits.

“Fuck, think I’m gonna choke on all this fuckin’ _dust,”_ one says, his cat-like tail swaying behind him. “Coulda dusted the damn place _once_ in the fuckin’ _thousand_ years since the fucker bit it.”

“I hear ya, Lam, the fuckin’ wardrobe’s more moths than clothes,” the other says, scratching at the spot on his head just between the bases of his twisting ram’s horns.

 _“Boys,”_ Vesemir says.

Both the Witchers stop and look up, obviously not expecting company and caught like naughty children.

“Vesemir?” the cat-demi says.

 _“Oh, shit!”_ the horned one says.

He bows quickly, but upon noticing that his friend isn’t doing the same, he grabs the cat-demi by the chain of his medallion, forcibly dragging him down into a bow.

 _“Hey!”_ the cat-demi shouts.

 _“My apologies, your Majesty, Grandmaster,”_ the horned one says quickly, still remaining bowed. “We spoke out of turn, your Majesty. Our deepest apologies, of course, your Majesty.”

Geralt has no clue what to say or do. “Um. Don’t worry about it?” is all he can think of. “I mean… What you were sayin’ was probably true anyway. And, um, I’m not really…good with the _majesty_ bit, so can we just…drop that? You can just call me Geralt. We’re all Witchers here, right? No need to be treatin’ me special.”

The horned Witcher stands up, and allows the cat-demi to stand as well.

“These will be your attendants,” Vesemir continues, pretending all of _that_ didn’t just happen. “The cat-demi is Lambert, and the ram-demi is Eskel. They’ll also act as your bodyguards.”

“It’s our honor, yo-… _Geralt,”_ Eskel says, catching himself and correcting his slip. “We’ve just finished cleaning your chambers. If you give us a minute, we’ll prepare a bath for you as well.”

The cat ears that sit on Lambert’s head fold back and his face shows the same expression of displeasure. He’s not happy being relegated to _servant_ , obviously.

“Thanks. But it’s fine, really. I don’t need attendants, I’m fine on my own,” Geralt tries to assure. “You really don’t need to do all this.”

“Don’t be daft,” Vesemir berates him. “A king needs attendants. Eskel, Lambert, prepare the bath.”

Geralt sighs as the Witchers bow quickly, then sidle past him and Vesemir to leave the rooms. They quietly shut the door behind them.

“I really don’t need attendants,” Geralt says again. “Never had ‘em before, and I got by alright.”

“Perhaps, but as I said, _a king_ has attendants,” Vesemir tells him. “Get used to it. Get some rest. I’m sure they’ll be up with the bathwater shortly.”

And with that, he turns to leave.

He stops, though, with one hand on the doorknob.

“The coronation will take place this evening,” he adds, and punches Geralt in the gut with mere words. “Too many Witchers here, not enough out there. The boys need to start getting back to it. Of course, they won’t leave without seeing our new king crowned. Not when they’ve come all the way here already.”

 _Then,_ he finally leaves.

Today has been _exhausting_ and Geralt needs a nap. He walks slowly towards the bed, unequipping his armor and removing his underclothes as he goes. He’s blessedly naked by the time he reaches the bed and is _beyond_ happy to collapse onto it.

Sadly, he doesn’t even have time to nap before there’s a knock on his door. Reluctantly, he gets up, wrapping himself in one of the sheets.

“Come in!” he calls.

Eskel and Lambert enter, along with a few more Witchers, all carrying buckets of water. They parade into the bath chambers and excuse themselves just as quickly, though Eskel and Lambert stay behind.

“I’ve heated the water for you, Geralt,” Eskel says, managing not to slip this time. “Will you need help bathing?”

Geralt rapidly shakes his head. “No. Not at all.”

“Would you like us to lay out your outfit for the ceremony?” he asks then. “There’s not much to salvage in the wardrobe, but I saw a few things that could work.”

“No, it’s fine. I’ve got a few things from Dol Blathanna. Filavandrel _insisted_ I let his tailor make something for me,” Geralt hums as he heads for the bath.

He stops, though, recalling that he actually has _another_ quest to finish. He removes the giant glowing rock from his inventory and hands it to Eskel. He and Lambert stare at it.

“Can you give that to Vesemir? Quest said to bring it here but I’ve no clue why,” Geralt admits. “Maybe he’ll know what to do with it.”

He heads to the bath chambers again.

At least a warm bath will help relax him for his nap.


	11. Chapter 11

He sits in a white room.

Every inch of space around him emits its own sharp, white light. Put together, it’s blinding. Even with his eyes shut, the light streams through his eyelids, giving him no respite.

_“Dear child. My Witcher King. You have finally found your court.”_

What...? Oh, fuck, is he dead again?!

Wait. No. He can’t be dead. He just took a bath and went to bed.

So...a vision, then? The gods speaking to him?

_“Sweet child, I am Dana Méadbh, the creator of this world. You may call me Lyfia, as many of my children do.”_

“L-Lyfia,” Geralt repeats. “Wh- What can I do for you, then? I’m guessing you wouldn’t appear like this if it wasn’t important.”

_“You are correct, dear Geralt. I have many things to tell you. There is much work for you to do.”_

“Okay. But can I ask first… Is it _really_ him? The Korin that was king here, is he _really_ the same Korin who was my father?”

_“Ah, yes, you must be quite confused by this. It is indeed one and the same Korin. As he died, I lead him to a paradise where he could finally be at peace. You are that paradise, along with your mother.”_

“But then…why did I have to die? Why’d I have to come here? Shouldn’t I have stayed with him?”

_“Goddess as I may be, I do not control Destiny. I simply weave the tale to suit Her story. Be not afraid, dear boy. I have already appeared to your parents. They know you are safe, even if they cannot explain the feeling.”_

Geralt swallows. “Okay. Okay. Tell me what I have to do, I guess.”

_“Worry not. Your new family will help you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> might fuck around and post the last two chapters tomorrow??


	12. Chapter 12

Lambert throws pillows at him until he wakes up. It has him startling awake, reaching for a sword that isn’t there to defend against the imagined threat. He lays back again with a sigh when Lambert snorts at him.

“Should you really be doing that sort of thing to your king?” Geralt grunts, grumpy as he always is when just waking up.

“Hey, you were the one who said not to treat you special,” Lambert shrugs with a smirk. “Food’s on the desk. Ceremony’s in two hours. Eskel will fetch you.”

And with that, he leaves, tail held high like he’s _quite_ satisfied with himself.

Well, he can’t say Lambert was in the wrong. Geralt _did_ say that.

He gets out of bed, wrapped in his covers again, and picks at the food Lambert brought for him. He _is_ a little hungry, but… Maybe it’s just nerves. He tries to eat a little anyway. He won’t be any good with an empty stomach.

He dresses in the clothes Filavandrel’s tailor prepared. Though they’re of elven make, the tailor made certain to suit them to Geralt’s wishes. He wouldn’t be able to stand having one of those long flowy robes, like he saw most elves in Dol Blathanna wear. Instead, the tailor made some fine trousers, as well as a shirt and an embroidered doublet.

The fabric is black as night. The trousers are plain, drawing attention instead to the exquisite embroideries. The thread almost seems to be made of pure silver; the carefully stitched snowflakes _shine_ when they catch the light. After Geralt hesitated about the floral pattern the tailor suggested, Jaskier suggested snowflakes, insisting that it and the silver would match his hair and his complexion beautifully, which the tailor agreed with. Geralt has to admit, as he gives himself a glance in the mirror, it doesn’t look too bad.

He sits down in the armchair in front of the fire.

Lyfia told him what his ‘mission’ as king would be. The reason Destiny saw fit to bring him here. She didn’t explain the details, but she gave him the broad strokes.

Being king is one thing; he can learn to be king. With Jaskier and Yennefer, and even Vesemir, to help him, he might even turn out to be a half-decent king in the end. But all this other stuff Lyfia told him about... He’s not sure he’s going to be able to handle all of it. It seems like...too much for one man, king or not.

There’s a knock on his door. Probably Eskel coming for him, like Lambert said.

“Come in.”

“Oh, you’re already dressed! And here I was, hoping I’d catch you with your pants down,” Jaskier teases.

Geralt scoffs at the quip.

“Laugh all you like, but I shan’t give up so easily,” the elf adds at Geralt’s smirk. “Aren’t you going to do anything with your lovely hair, darling?”

Geralt shrugs. “Dunno. Wasn’t planning on it, I guess.”

“Well, that simply won’t do!” Jaskier decides. “You should at least look _presentable_ for your own coronation! Come on, come over here, I’ll fix your hair.”

Geralt moves over to the smaller chair at the desk, giving the bard easier access to his hair. After searching some of the desk drawers, they even find a brush. He’s quiet, as Jaskier begins brushing out his hair.

“You really do have the most beautiful hair, my dear,” Jaskier remarks as his fingers run through it. “Seems a shame not to do something special with it, at least for such an occasion as this.”

“Hm.”

“You seem lost in thought, dear. What’s on your mind?”

Geralt takes a deep breath. “Might sound crazy, but… I had a dream. And…Lyfia spoke to me.”

Jaskier stops. “Dana Méadbh? You _spoke_ to Dana Méadbh?”

“More like _she_ spoke, I listened. But yes, I suppose. She told be all sorts of things that I’m…supposed to do. When I’m king. And…I’m worried I won’t be enough,” the soon-to-be king admits.

Jaskier hums. He clears his throat, then starts back at his task, working the brush through Geralt’s messy mane. “She… She wouldn’t give you a task you can’t complete, would she? If she and Melitele brought you here, they must know you can do what it is they want you to do here.”

“Maybe. Doesn’t change the fact that I’m worried,” Geralt says.

Jaskier sets the brush aside and begins fiddling with doing up Geralt’s hair. “There’s not much I can say that will abate your concerns. All I can tell you is that… You have me, and Yennefer, and that Vesemir fellow, and a whole clan of Witchers, and when the elves and dwarves hear a Witcher King’s been crowned, they’ll no doubt be happy to resume their alliances with the clan, my brother already likes you after all,” Jaskier reminds him. “You have _countless_ people to help you complete whatever mission it is you might have. It might seem a contrived sentiment, but… Believe in yourself. Believe in the people around you. If you let them, people have a tendency to surprise you.”

“It just seems like… _a lot.”_

Jaskier makes a noise of agreement. “Then divide it into smaller tasks. Each journey begins with one single step. Take your mission, split it into steps, then take each step by itself. Many small steps put together will take you very far.”

Geralt considers his words for a moment. “I guess the first step of the journey will be the coronation, then.”

Jaskier finishes tying Geralt’s hair back, then reaches his hand down and squeeze Geralt’s shoulder. “And we’ll all be right there with you, for this step and the next, and the next, and so on, until we reach our final destination.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> eeeey we're almost there, and im working on the sequel but that bitch Long so be patient


	13. Chapter 13

Every Witcher in the keep has squeezed into the great hall. On one end of the room, there’s a small platform that’s been cobbled together with some crates, barrels, and planks. On it, they’ve placed a fine chair, which is probably supposed to act as a throne. Geralt got a quick look at the place as Vesemir walked him through how the ceremony works, before promptly being booted back outside to let the Witchers fill the room.

The doors are pulled open for him by his attendants. He leads the way inside. At either his side, just a step behind him, are Jaskier and Yennefer. The sea of Witchers part to let them through. Everyone watches as they pass. They walk up on the stage, using a footstool as a step.

Vesemir waits there, along with two other older Witchers. One holds a crown, the other holds a scepter, Vesemir stands between them. Jaskier and Yennefer take their places, standing on either side of the throne. Geralt kneels before the throne, his back to the crowd. Vesemir and his aides come to stand before him.

“Geralt, the White Wolf, son of Korin, the Breath of Peace,” Vesemir speaks, his voice loud and reverberating. “Do you swear to uphold the peace and balance of this world?”

Geralt swallows. “I swear,” he says, hoping he is loud enough that they can all hear him.

“And do you swear, to protect the common folk, be they human, dwarf, elf, or orc?”

“I swear.”

“Do you swear, to raise your sword only in protection of another?”

“I swear.”

“Do you swear to lean on your brothers, your clan, and rely on the wisdom of those wiser than you, and the advice of those more experienced than you, so that you may lead us all, to the best of your ability?”

“I swear.”

“Then, Geralt, the White Wolf,” Vesemir says, turning for a moment to pick up the crown from the small pillow it rests on. “It is my great honor, to crown you _the Witcher King of Kaer Morhen.”_

Geralt can hardly breathe as he feels the [crown](https://cdn.discordapp.com/attachments/725686120310112267/797580839139278878/Screenshot_20210109-163947_Chrome.jpg) be placed on his head. It’s heavy, he notices. It’s solid silver, if his eyes didn’t mistake him when he first saw it. With elegant leaves forged onto it, braided together in bundles of three, with a small green gem placed at the meeting point of their stems.

“With this crown, feel the weight of our hope.”

He offers the scepter to Geralt, who takes it reverently.

The scepter is silver too, the same decorations of leaves, though painstakingly drawn though the metal instead of forged onto it. And at its top, sits the Heart of the Mountain, which Geralt himself collected from Owl’s Home. So that’s what it was for…

“With this scepter, lead us onto the path of peace.”

“I feel this weight, I accept my duty, and I will lead my people.”

“Then stand, Geralt, King of Witchers, and greet your people.”

Geralt rises to his feet. Vesemir steps aside. Holding on tightly to the scepter, he takes the few steps to the throne, then turns to face his people.

The sea of Witchers breaks into deafening cheers. They shout and clap and holler.

Geralt sits down on his throne. He’s nervous as hell, but with Jaskier and Yennefer, who stand at either his sides, he feels a little better.

He really is a king now, then.

But as he told Jaskier, this is only the first step of the journey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and thats that! like i said, im working on the sequel buuut itll probably be a decent while until its finished and ready to post.
> 
> i hope you enjoyed this crazy thing! i had some silly ideas and this all just sprung out of that! i really had fun writing this thing, and im super grateful to KittenKakt for all the help <3 <3 <3


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